


Sherlock Prompts/Snippets

by maryagrawatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 24,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5826667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryagrawatson/pseuds/maryagrawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These snippets are flashes of scenes that have come to me, but which I know will never coalesce into the larger story I would fit them in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Against His Will

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping that other writers might run with these ideas. You're welcome use the snippets as you see fit, from just inspiration to actually taking it verbatim, as long as I get credit back.
> 
> For context as to where my mind was when I wrote these/further inspiration, many of them take place in a universe in the not so distant future after the Moriarty threat has been eliminated, but Sherlock has still had to go on that suicide mission. Only this time, there's a rescue plan, which hasn't saved him from really bad things happening.
> 
> You may see some themes or lines reocccur as I wrestle with an idea. Finally, these are all very raw and I know that most are not very good. But perhaps getting them out there will help me focus on the stories I do plan to finish. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where I was going with this one is that Sherlock has been rescued (more so than extracted) after completing his mission and Mycroft has come to pick him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this at least a year before TAB aired so any similarities to a certain scene are entirely coincidental!

Mycroft Holmes steps into the room and doesn't recoil at the overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies. He's too focused on scanning the mass of people huddled under grey blankets, looking for the one person he knows. A woman carrying a clipboard comes up to him. "He's over there, Mr. Holmes," she says softly, pointing discreetly to the back wall. Mycroft carefully steps around several people until he comes to the grey lump he's come for. He crouches down, knees popping.

"Sherlock?"

He can see the lump tense under the blanket.

Then a shuddering breath that nearly sounds like, "M- -- Mike?"

Mycroft let's out a sigh of relief. "Yes, it's Mike. Can you sit up for me?"

It takes a moment, but Sherlock manages to unfold and push himself up to a sitting position. Mycroft is afraid to touch him and so doesn't put out a steadying hand. Finally, Sherlock is leaning against the wall. He blinks as he tries to focus. Mycroft can see that his pupils are blown. Sherlock isn't so out of it not to notice Mycroft's deduction. "I didn't want to," he slurs. To Mycroft's horror, tears well up in Sherlock's eyes. "I didn't want..." Sherlock's voice breaks and his shoulders begin to shake with repressed sobs.

Mycroft can't stand it anymore. He lays a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder and earns a flinch for it before Sherlock leans into his touch. That's all Mycroft needs. He reaches for his little brother and pulls him tightly against him. He doesn't even notice the smell or the greasy tufts of hair scattered across his poorly shorn head.

_(some time later)_

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"I have some soup here for you." Mycroft gently eases himself down. "Do you want to try some?"

"S-soup?"

"Yes. Beef and barley soup like Mummy used to make. Are you hungry?"

"'M hungry," Sherlock whispers as though it's a shameful secret.

"Can you sit up so I can pass you the bowl?" Sherlock does so and holds out his hands. Mycroft places the bowl gently in them. Sherlock pulls it towards himself, wraps his whole fist around the spoon, and manages to bring a shaky spoonful to his lips, then another. Mycroft is pleased to see him eat hungrily, but not desperately, and is hopeful that the food will stay down.

When Sherlock is done, Mycroft takes the bowl and passes his brother a bottle of water with a straw in it. Sherlock wraps cracked and bloodied lips around the straw and drinks deeply.

"'M tired, Mike."

"I know you are. Have a rest. Just lean on me."


	2. Mary's Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary's dead and whatever killed her nearly took John, too. Sherlock has stepped up and is taking care of Baby Watson when he's reminded, once again, that he's never alone.

Lestrade rapped on the doorframe to the sitting room and called out, "Sherlock?" It took a moment, but Sherlock eventually came down the hallway holding the baby, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Sherlock was grey faced from lack of sleep, his eyes red and surrounded by dark circles. Lestrade held his arms out for the baby and Sherlock passed her over before sinking into his chair. "Just came by to give you a break."  
Sherlock looked up, surprise evident on his tired face. "I'd appreciate a half hour for a nap. Thank you."  
Lestrade shook his head. "I'm going to take her out for the morning. I'll be back with Chinese at one."  
Sherlock sighed gratefully and scrubbed his face. "This is so hard."  
"I have two kids; I know. And I also know that people who don't have kids forget that it's hard for a long time, not just the first few days. Don't be afraid to call me or Molly or Janine when it's too much." Sherlock nodded. "Still no change with John?"  
"No. And every day..."  
"Don't do that, Sherlock, not yet. Just focus on today and take care of their girl like you promised you would. There will be time to think about tomorrow when everything isn't so raw." Lestrade got up, cradling the baby's head. "Now, let's get her things together."

Five hours later, Lestrade returned to find Sherlock setting the kitchen table, the tea already brewing. His colour was much better. "Managed to get some sleep?" Lestrade asked, passing the baby over.  
"Four solid blissful hours; all I needed. And I had a long bath. Thank you again." Sherlock bent his neck to kiss the baby on her brow. She gurgled happily.  
"Hungry?"  
"Ravenous."

_(some time later)_

His mother came out as soon as Sherlock turned into the drive. He accepted a hug when he stepped out of the car and then went to the back seat to release the baby from her carrier, promptly handing her over. Mrs. Holmes cooed and headed into the house, with Sherlock following holding his bags.   
"Go sit," his mum said. "You look like you're about to fall over."   
"She needs to eat."   
"I can do that. Remember, I raised two children. You've earned some rest. Your dad and I are taking responsibility for the weekend." To Sherlock's horror, tears welled up in his eyes. He sniffed. "Oh, darling, you've done so well and you're exhausted. That's all it is. Go and put your feet up for a bit."   
"Thanks, mum."

He went into the lounge to find his father sitting in front of the telly. They greeted each other and then Sherlock toed off his shoes and reclined on the couch.   
"I looked like you the first few months after Mycroft was born. I always forget that he was the fussy baby."   
"Gee, thanks."   
"I was going to get a brandy. Interested?"   
"Please. Thanks, dad."

Mr. Holmes returned a few minutes and handed Sherlock a glass and a plate of shortbread. Sherlock took a sip and then tucked into a biscuit.   
"How is John doing?"   
"Much better. His short-term memory is returning. Next week, I'll start leaving the baby with him for a few hours a couple of times a week."   
"That's great news!"


	3. Drugged Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another one where Sherlock gets dosed against his will. I'd really like to see where someone goes with this one. It's not related to my post-TAB (formerly post HLV *g*) universe, but is one where I imagine Sherlock getting taken hostage for once instead of John.

John knelt down beside his prone friend. "Sherlock?"  
Sherlock shuddered and retched. John had just enough time to roll him onto his side before he vomited weakly. When Sherlock was done, John quickly crooked two fingers into Sherlock's mouth to clear his airway, then moved him into the recovery position before taking his vitals. The pulse was sluggish, but he was breathing well.

"J- J- John?" Sherlock slurred, blinking rapidly, his eyes unfocused.  
"It's me, Sherlock. You're safe now."  
To John's horror, Sherlock began to cry. "Said no. Not my fault. Don't tell Mycroft. Didn't want it."  
"It's okay, Sherlock. You're not in trouble. It's not your fault." Sherlock sobbed louder at that and, at a loss, John eased himself down so that he could gather Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock melted into the touch and rested heavily against John's shoulder, his tears quickly soaking through John's shirt.

"John?" The doctor turned his head to Lestrade. "How is he?"  
John shook his head. "He got dosed with something. Definitely needs paramedics."  
"They're on their way. Let me get him out of those cuffs."


	4. Boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's one with another favourite theme of mine, Donovan and Sherlock reconciling after his return. I thought that the person they're searching for in this one is John, but now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure it's Lestrade. Perhaps someone blew up New Scotland Yard?

The search for bodies in the rubble was entering its second night. It was still a rescue operation, but the chances of finding survivors grew dimmer with each passing hour.

 

Sergeant Sally Donovan surveyed the scene, her eyes resting on the figure of a man sitting on the ground against a large pile of concrete, slumped over, head in his hands. He was wearing dark jeans and a button down shirt with rolled up sleeves. It had been white, but was now stained with sweat, blood, and dust from the debris.

 

She went to him. "Sherlock?" she said quietly.

 

The man took so long to respond she didn't think he had heard her. But then, he turned slowly, revealing a pale face with two days of beard growth and dark under eye circles. He'd been one of the first on the scene and hadn't left. That he had uncharacteristically moved aside to let the experts do their job, doing only what he was told to help, spoke volumes about how much he cared for a man buried beneath that rubble.

 

He accepted with trembling hands the steaming cup of coffee she proferred and took a sip. She then passed him a bag. "Bottle of water, couple of ham and cheese sandwiches." He blinked and gave her a grateful smile, reaching into the bag to pull out a sandwich. He unwrapped it, his shaky hands making the task difficult, and took a large bite. After he swallowed, "Thank you."

She nodded. "When was the last time you ate?"

"I -- I can't remember. Do biscuits and tea count?"

"No," she said emphatically. "You need to keep your strength up. You won't otherwise be any good to him when they pull him out."

He finished the first sandwich and unwrapped the other one. "Why are you here?"

"Because you've been here for two days and proved to me you're not a psychopath." She smiled wryly.

He huffed, chewing thoughtfully.

 

"Your arm," she gasped, noticing a large gash up his right forearm, the blood still bright red, but tacky. "That looks fresh."

"What?"

"You cut your arm on something."

 

He followed her gaze and examined his arm slowly, as though he was having trouble registering what he was seeing. "Oh."

"You really need to get that looked at. Come on."

 

Donovan was concerned about the docile way Sherlock let her take his elbow to help him to his feet. She guided him to an ambulance and a paramedic promptly sat him down.

 

Sherlock continued to sip at the oversweet coffee as the paramedic numbed, cleaned, and sutured the wound. "Are your tetanus jabs up to date, sir?"

"Yes."

"Good. Let me just wrap it up. You'll need to change the bandage twice a day and monitor for infection."

"All right. Thank you."

 


	5. Lestrade Whump, with a Splash of Traumatized!Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't react well to an attack on Lestrade. Chapter warning for blood and references to violence!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this one had potential, but I don't have Sherlock quite right in it, even if TAB has made this Sherlock less out of character than I realised... and the same goes for his relationship with Mycroft.
> 
> Please note these events are occurring on the correct floors of the hospital (thanks, Google), but the medical stuff is just placeholders. So no comments needed about the administration of sedatives, etc. :)

"Is this John Watson?" John recognizes the voice as being that of Sally Donovan. She sounds strange, like she's been crying. John hands the baby to Mary as his gut twists into a knot.

"Yes...

"This is Sally Donovan. Greg and Sherlock went back to a crime scene and it went bad. They got ambushed. It's not looking good for Greg. Sherlock isn't hurt, but he's in shock and needs you. They're at St. Mary's."

 

John arrives at the hospital within an hour and, after getting directions, finds Sherlock sitting on a bed in an examination room. He is slumped over, head in his hands, wearing a gown, and covered in blood under it. "Sherlock?" Sherlock doesn't even stir at this and John takes the few steps to him, squatting to put himself level to Sherlock's face. "Sherlock?" he tries again. Still nothing, other than Sherlock shaking badly.

 

"Dr. Watson?"

John turns to see Sally standing in the doorway. He rubs Sherlock's shoulder gently. "I'll be right back."

 

"What the hell had happened?" he asks Donovan without preamble.

"We don't know yet if this is related to the original crime. There were squatters at the scene and Greg obviously gave them hell. They were high out of their minds on something and attacked him. Slashed his throat. Sherlock called 999. You don't want to listen to that tape..." She swallows hard. "The medics found Sherlock with his hands around Greg's throat, trying to stop the bleeding. It's the only reason Greg didn't die on the scene. But he's lost so much blood... They're still working on him."

"Are we sure Sherlock's not hurt?"

Donovan nods. "Yeah. The blood's all Greg's. Sherlock was pretty hysterical in the call. As I said, it was really bad. I -- I didn't know he felt that way about Greg. Greg cares about him so much and I'm sorry it took this to make me realise that Sherlock feels the same way."

"To be fair, I don't think Sherlock realised it either. I'm going back to him."

"Yes, yes. Of course. I'll be in the waiting room on the ninth floor if you need anything."

"Thank you for calling me."

 

John goes back into the room and pulls up a chair in front of the examination table. Sherlock is still sitting there trembling. John takes one of his hands, not caring that it is covered in blood that has dried to rust and is beginning to flake. "I'm going to try to find your doctor, okay? And then we'll see about getting you cleaned up." John starts to stand, but Sherlock grabs his wrist. John nods and settles in the chair. "They're still working on Greg. Donovan says you're the only reason he made it this far. Good job." Footsteps in the hall make John turn his head towards the door, but Sherlock doesn't react.

A nurse carrying a clipboard comes in. "I'm sorry I took so long, Mr. Holmes," he says softly. Seeing John, "Are you Dr. Watson?"

"Yes."

"Sergeant Donovan said you would come. I'm glad you found him. I've got a shower room and change of clothes ready for him. Do you want to help or should I?"

"I'll do it." He glances to Sherlock. "Is he on anything?"

"A light dose of benzos to try to push him out of his stupor."

"Good. Where should I take him?"

"Turn right, then three doors down on the left. Marked shower. We won't be admitting him unless you feel it's necessary, so he can leave after."

"Fine. Thanks."

 

The nurse leaves and John cups Sherlock's face, forcing it up gently. He catches Sherlock's expression for just a second before his gaze slips back into the middle distance. "Let's get you cleaned up," John says. He's relieved when, with gentle prodding, Sherlock gets up and allows himself to be led out of the room.

 

The nurse thought of everything and the shower room is stocked with soap, shampoo, a nail brush, a comb, and a large stack of flannels and towels, as well as disposable scrubs, slippers, and even a dressing gown. John has Sherlock sit on the bench, strips down to his pants to keep his clothes dry, and then removes Sherlock's gown and pants, with Sherlock helping only by moving his limbs as John requests.

 

Sherlock is absolutely unresponsive as John wets him down with warm water and begins the Herculean task of scrubbing all the blood off him. The soap cannot mask the stench of iron in the room. John works methodically with flannels and the brush until he he is satisfied that every last bit of Greg's blood has been washed off his friend. He then uses the last flannel and gives Sherlock a final wipe down with soap and rinses. Satisfied, John cuts the water and sets to work with towels. Sherlock still does not respond, but a tug here or there and he moves his arms and legs as needed for John to be able to dress him. "I'm going to leave you here for a minute," John says once he's run the comb through Sherlock's hair and dressed himself. "Just going to get an update on Greg before we go upstairs."

 

John steps out and is taken aback to find Mycroft standing by the door. "What are you doing here?"

Mycroft throws up his hands and takes a step back. "Sergeant Donovan called. How are they?"

"It looks bad for Greg. Sherlock's in shock. I never thought I'd say this, but whatever happened, he's really traumatized. He really doesn't need to see you right now."

Mycroft nods. "I know. I -- we're beyond all of that, him and I. Let me know if he wants to see me. I'm going upstairs to relieve Sergeant Donovan for a bit."

"If you hear anything --"

"I will."

"Okay. Thanks."

 

When he comes back into the shower room, John finds Sherlock still in the same position he left him in. With gentle coaxing, he gets him to stand and shuffle out of the room and up to the ninth floor waiting area. Sherlock sits in a chair without prompting, eyes still blankly staring, mirroring a horror John can all too well imagine. John pulls the dressing gown more tightly over Sherlock's shaking shoulders. There are cups and straws by the water fountain and he brings a filled glass to Sherlock. He's pleased when Sherlock's lips close around the straw and he drinks well.

 

There's a discrete cough and John turns to find a woman in green scrubs. "I'll be right back," he tells Sherlock. The pair of them step out of earshot.

"I'm Dr. Mason," she introduces herself. "I have you on file for Greg Lestrade so I can give you an update."

"Thank you."

"Barring an infection or embolism, I'm cautiously optimistic that he will live."

John lets out a sigh of relief. "Neuro?"

"Still too soon to tell, but preliminary scans are encouraging. Also, the wound was shallow and his larynx was undamaged. So as long as there is no brain damage, his speech functions shouldn't be affected."

"So his prognosis is good."

She nods. "Mr. Holmes saved his life. There is no question of it. How is he doing?"

"He's in a stupor. I've never seen him so rattled."

"Were they close?"

"I don't think he realised how much so until this happened."

"Right. Well, we've moved Mr. Lestrade into a room. You're welcome to bring Mr. Holmes for a visit if you think it would help."

"I will. Thanks again."

 

John returns to Sherlock, who still hasn't moved. "Cautious optimism at this point, Sherlock. He's likely to be okay and if he is, it's all thanks to you."

 

Finally, a response, just the barest hint of a swallow. And then, Sherlock is sobbing. John is so shocked that he remains rooted in his spot for a long moment before pulling Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock remains stiff, but John insists on holding him. When Sherlock is done, he pulls away and closes his eyes. John fetches more water and helps him drink, then wipes down his face with a cool wet flannel an attentive nurse prepared for him. "Do you want to go see him?" Eyes still closed, mouth clenched shut, Sherlock nods, then stands.

 

John takes Sherlock's elbow to guide him down the hall. A few moments later, they are standing outside Lestrade's room. The door is ajar. John raps lightly on it and Mycroft comes out. "I'm glad to see you up, Sherlock," he says softly. Sherlock's only acknowledgement is a barely perceptible nod. "I'll leave you two alone. Do you need anything from the cantine?"

"No," John replies. "Could you call Mary?"

"Already done so. I told her that for right now, the best thing she can do is stay home with your daughter."

"Thank you." Mycroft shakes his hand before leaving. "Okay, Sherlock. Ready to go in?" Sherlock responds by pushing lightly on the door.

 

Lestrade is as white as the sheets he's lying on, but he's breathing on his own, aided only by a nasal cannula. Sherlock shuffles to the bed, sinks down into a chair, and reaches out to clutch Greg's pale right hand.

 


	6. Sorting Out the Hard Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think this one could be related to the first snippet I posted. I know what Sherlock's been through, but there are no overt references to it in this bit.
> 
> Again, written pre-TAB.

John rapped lightly on the door and pushed it open a tad, "Sherlock, it's John. I'm coming in." He opened the door enough to be able to step into the room. It was just a standard overflow office room with cheap furniture and even cheaper industrial carpet. There was also a padded guest chair that had been pushed into the corner farthest from the door. There was a man curled up in it, knees drawn up to his chest, one hand clutching a blanket drapped over his shoulders, the other holding a quarter of what appeared to be a ham and cheese sandwich, with a bite taken out of it. Next to the chair was a table with a plate holding half a sandwich and a steaming cup of tea.

 

These external details taken in, John was able to focus on a man who looked nothing like the Sherlock Holmes he remembered. John had seen Sherlock in all sorts of states, but the shorn head, gaunt and bruised face, and red rimmed verdigris eyes moist with shock and dulled by trauma were new. John grabbed another chair and pulled it over. "Hey," he said," as he sat down.

Sherlock let go of the blanket and reached out a hand. John took it and squeezed gently. "I'm real. Why don't you go ahead and finish your sandwich?"

Sherlock took another small bite and chewed carefully, the gesture obviously causing him discomfort. John frowned, unable to discern if Sherlock's obvious difficulty was due to a problem with his jaw, teeth, or maybe tongue. It took Sherlock about five minutes to get through the rest of the sandwich and then he picked up the cup of tea.

"Do you want anything else? Biscuits?"

Sherlock shook his head and took a sip. His hands trembled and a little sloshed over the rim of the cup. "I want to go home," he said in a small, shaky voice.

"I know you do, but you need to let someone look at you first. Okay?"

To John's horror, Sherlock's chin quivered. Tears welled up and spilled over. John reached behind him for a tissue box on the desk. He handed one to Sherlock, who took it and swiped at his eyes. "I want to go home," Sherlock whispered again. "Please, can I go home?"

"Sherlock, I need you to trust me at this point that you need a checkup. It's not going to be pleasant, I won't lie you about that, but it needs to be done. Just get it over with."

John earned a resigned sigh. "W- -- will you stay with me?"

"Of course. Finish your tea, I'll go talk to Mycroft. Okay?"

"Mm-hmm."

 

John stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut. Mycroft was pacing. "He needs a complete examination," John said without preamble. "He didn't have to tell me anything. What he went through is obvious."

"That's what I thought as well," Mycroft replied sadly. "Will he agree to it?"

"Yeah." John sighed, "But he needs a professional support person there with him. As his friend, I'm compromised. I can't give him the emotional support and help that he badly needs right now."

Mycroft nodded. "I have someone on standby. She's trained to deal with this sort of situation. She's worked with others who have been... victimized in this manner."

"She sounds perfect. He's going to fight it, thought."

"I know what to say to him."

John was taken aback by that. "Okay... Well, good. Let's go in, then." He knocked on the door and called out softly as he opened it. "Sherlock, it's me again with Mycroft. He has something to needs to say to you."

 

"Okay," the soft, broken voice that felt so wrong coming from Sherlock Holmes replied.

"Sherlock, there's someone waiting for you at the hospital. She'll be with you and John through the whole thing. She's been trained in working with people who have been through similar ordeals and I think she can help."

"I don't want to talk to anyone." There, at last, a glimpse of the Sherlock John knew.

"Sherlock," Mycroft continued, "You've never denied yourself necessary medical care. How is this any different?"

Sherlock's head whipped up and he caught Mycroft's gaze for a moment before dropping his head again. "I didn't think of it that way," he mumbled.

"Your thoughts are understandably in disarray right now. Think of her as a computer tech who can sort out your hard drive."

 

John stood by, listening in shock to the conversation. Mycroft Holmes never ceased to surprise him, but this time, it was a good surprise. He'd said exactly the right thing to his very traumatized brother. No recrimination, no teasing, just proof of just how much he loved his baby brother and wanted nothing but the best for him.


	7. Pop Culture Reference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock just might have a favourite movie. This is much lighter fare than what I've posted so far. More below in the notes.

John scooped up the dregs of the popcorn as the credits rolled. “So?”

“I didn’t hate it,” Sherlock said begrudgingly.

“Well, that’s high praise for you.”

“And I think Connery is superior to Moore.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“So now that I have sat through several of your inane Bond things, I want to show you a real movie.”

John’s eyebrows nearly shot past his scalp. “You have a favourite movie? This is going to be… interesting.”

 

A couple of hours later, it was Sherlock’s turn. He tipped the crumbs out of the bag of salt and vinegar crisps into his mouth first. “So?”

“I’m surprised by how gripping that was. I thought it would be really boring, lots of math and science.”

Sherlock snorted. “As if the story actually matters.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course. You were only interested in the puzzle. I’m surprised you didn’t just skip through all the other material.”

“I can’t say I wasn’t tempted.”

“Do you think you could have solved it any faster? Figure out how to get the scrubbers to fit using what they had on board, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied honestly. “And the powering down stuff was well beyond me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewatching ASIP some time ago, Sherlock said something that completely boggled me: “Houston, we have a mistake.” The man who doesn’t keep useless trivia in his head made a pop culture reference by paraphrasing a movie quote! The movie is, of course, Apollo 13. I can see why Sherlock could like it as it features a couple of interesting problems. These are the very kinds of puzzles I solve in my blogging universe (really, I get to say Star Treky things like, “You need to reverse the polarity”!) and they are very often mysteries, albeit with no dead bodies. So after I got over the shock of hearing Sherlock make a movie reference and stopped criticising the writing, I realised that I’d just found another side of Sherlock buried deep within a throwaway line.
> 
> And so, a ficlet was born... only I never got liftoff on it. I just couldn't make it an actual story and it just didn't work for me to post as drabble.


	8. John Backstory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one fits into my head canon about John as to who are 'Stella and Ted', frequent commenters on the blog who are also mentioned in TSOT.
> 
> Another one of those where I had an idea but just couldn't make a story out of it. More thoughts in the note after the snippet.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” He was focused on his marmelade, which meant he was listening to me.

“I’m having some people over for dinner tonight. Well, not here, obviously. But they’ll be stopping by because they want to see the flat and then we’re going to Angelo’s. You’ll recognise them from blog comments, Stella and Ted. Do you want to join us?”

“Who are Stella and Ted?” Sherlock asked, finally looking up from his toast.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t deduced that yet.”

“Not much data to go on, I’m afraid. I thought perhaps aunt and uncle, but you call them by their first names. I’m betting on close family friends who are like family given Stella’s ebullient style. Well, when I say close, I mean that you keep in touch, but they obviously don’t live nearby.

“Not bad,” I tell him. “But wrong. They are family, my only family other than Harry. They were my foster parents when I was a teenager.”

Sherlock looks taken aback by that. “Your foster parents.”

I nod. “My mum died from breast cancer when I was twelve and my dad was a drunken arsehole who used Harry and me for a punching bag.”

“Oh.” I flicker of something that looks like sadness flashes across Sherlock’s eyes.

“I lived with Stella and Ted for a few years after I finally got taken away. Not long enough to really be their son, but long enough for them to still be there for me after I left. So?”

“Surely you’ll want to catch up with them. I’d just be in the way.”

“Come on, Stella reads the blog. She’s dying to meet you!”

 

Sherlock’s was on his best behaviour during dinner, even deigning to deduce other diners, to Stella’s delight. It wasn’t until years later, when I finally met his mum, that I understood why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A scene was cut from a script where we learn that John's mother is dead, so that's not my invention. I perceive John as having abusive traits (we see them come out a lot in series 3 and in TAB) and so my head canon has always been that he learned how to handle his anger from an abusive father. So it just makes sense to me that Stella and Ted could have been foster parents. Your mileage may vary. I know the fandom is polarised on the John is abusive issue and don't feel like getting back into in the comments if we've already discussed it. :)


	9. The Slave, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is another rather self-indulgent attempt at bridging the gap between the Sherlock we know and the Sherlock who would eventually retire at Sussex. This first section, of which this is one part of several, is almost a story unto itself and complete. It is then followed by a few more scenes in this universe that give an idea of how I would have fit this into a proper story.
> 
> Tread carefully with this one if you decide to read on as there are references, but no graphic descriptions, to sexual assault and torture having happened in the recent past.
> 
> We're once again in a post-HLV/TAB universe where Sherlock still had to go on the mission after resolving the Moriarty threat, but this is not related to the other two snippets I've posted, as you'll see in future parts.

The slave kneeled before his new master, the irons around his neck, wrists, and ankles pulling tightly into irritated flesh. He remained in a prone position, forehead resting against a faded linoleum floor, as his handler and new owner spoke. He had understood the language some time ago, but after so many months (a year?) of torture and deprivation he could barely remember his own tongue.

 

After some time, he heard his handler leave, his heavy footsteps echoing behind him.

 

"Let's get you out of those chains," the gentle male voice of his new owner said in heavily accented English, startling the slave into raising his head. Realising what he had done, he quickly lowered it, shoulders shaking. "Sit back on your bottom and put out your hands." The slave did so, awkwardly manoeuvring himself into the required position. He kept his eyes shut to avoid accidentally meeting the owner's gaze.

 

There was the sound of metal on metal, a slight pinch, and then the restraints began to fall away one by one. He allowed himself a peek and could see that his wrists and ankles were raw and bloody. His neck felt the same way.

 

"Can you stand?" The slave understood that to be a command and forced himself upright, his feet unsteady under him. He kept his shoulders hunched, his head down.

"This is where you will sleep," the man said. "Look at where I am pointing." The slave did so, seeing a pallet with covers and a pillow in the far corner of the room next to an old hot water radiator. "Take the bundle of clothes on it and the bag and follow me."

 

The slave took the few steps to the pallet and bent down carefully to retrieve the items. His back, covered entirely with barely healed wounds over older scars, strained at the motion. The slave bit back a cry as the muscles twinged. He gathered the items in his arms and turned back to rejoin his master.

 

They left the room through a door directly opposite the pallet and turned right into a dusky hallway. "Now, remember three doors." His owner counted, one, two, and stopped in front of the third door. "This is your lavatory. You will keep it clean. You may take one short shower before bed every night, but you can use the toilet as often as you need."

 

The slave allowed himself to survey the small and poorly lit room. It held a pedestal sink, toilet, and a badly scratched bathtub.

 

"Have a shower now and change into fresh clothes. Leave your old clothes in the hallway. Then come back and meet me in the storeroom. Oh, and you may close the door for privacy, of course." The man turned and left.

 

The slave shook, knowing what would come next. He shut the door, then set the clothing on the back of the toilet and upturned the bag into the sink. It held a toothbrush, toothpaste, an electric shaver, and a bar of soap. He arranged these items on the shelf above the sink and finally took a look at himself in the mirror.

 

The first thing he saw were his verdigris eyes starring dazedly at him. The scar running from the corner of the left one to the ear, which was missing most of its helix, had healed well. The brand covering most of his right shoulder had finally healed into an angry dark pink knot of scar. His shorn head was growing out again; anyone could see that the hair was dark. He hadn't been able to shave in days, but the stubble scattered over his chin was thin. He had never been successful at growing a decent beard.

 

He plugged the shaver into the outlet to the left of the sink and ran the blade over his face and throat, to the edge of the strip of raw skin. He then cleaned his teeth. Conscious of the time, he quickly removed his dirty tee-shirt and pants, leaving them in the hall as ordered.

 

He moved to the shower and twisted the knobs, surprised to find hot water. The last times he had been allowed to bathe, it had been under a hose forcing ice cold water at him with enough pressure to bruise.

 

Grabbing the soap and a flannel resting over a towel on a bar by the bath, he stepped under the spray and quickly lathered himself, paying especial care to his genitals. The sting of soap on his irritated anus made him hiss, but for once he relished the pain; he could not remember the last time he had felt so clean. But he knew that he would soon feel dirty again. He allowed himself a moment of hope that his new owner would give him time to heal a little. He had become quite adept at using his mouth and surely that could satisfy his master for a few days.

 

Not allowing himself even an extra second to enjoy the hot water, he rinsed, cut the water, and then dried himself thoroughly. He pulled on the clothing that had been left for him, dark grey Y-front pants, navy blue jogging bottoms with a matching hooded zip up jacket, a black tee-shirt, and socks, all scratchy new and though a small size, still too large for his nearly emaciated frame. Finally, there was a pair of canvas slip-on shoes that were just a half size too big. The clothing puzzled him. His previous owner had preferred him nearly nude and always accessible.

 

He returned empty-handed to the storeroom. His master was sitting at the table and motioned for him to sit as well. The slave slid onto the hard wooden chair, head still tucked down.

 

"I want an English teacher for my son," the master said. “He cannot go to school right now because of the bombings. You will teach him in English. I have his books and you will help him work through the exercises. You will also help him practice his conversational English. I want him to be able to study in Canada, away from this miserable place."

 

The slave tried to process these words, but was unable to do so. He was not so out of his mind to not understand what had happened all those months ago, that he had been betrayed by a contact and sold into the sex trade. There was only one reason this man had bought him.

 

"You do this and we will get along fine. I have no wish to harm you. This is my way of atoning for what my people are doing." His owner paused. "Can you understand me? Answer me. I want to hear your voice."

"Yes, master," the slave said, his voice hoarse from disuse.

"Good. But I wish for you to call me Yuri. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Y- -- Yuri."

"Better. The other thing you will do is clean the kitchen every night. We are a large family and the cook is busy enough planning and making meals. After the evening meal, you will go to the kitchen and ensure it is spotlessly clean for breakfast the next morning."

"Yes, Yuri."

"Food is scarce. If you are caught stealing, you will be punished. The cook will leave your food here on the table. That is all you are to eat. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Yuri."

 

Yuri called out in his own language and a woman materialized with a bowl and spoon, which she set in front of the slave. He stared at them for a long moment. The small bowl was full of porridge and topped with a crumbled boiled egg and a few bites of sausage.

"Eat," Yuri said. "Then, I will take you to see my son. I will be back in a few minutes. There are cups in the cupboard in the corner. If you are thirsty, you can get water from your lavatory."

 

The slave waited for his owner to leave, then he took the spoon with a shaking hand and scooped up some of the food. He brought it up to his mouth and chewed carefully. The meal was bland, but hot; the best thing he had tasted in months. He forced himself to eat slowly, but gave in to the urge to lick the bowl clean.

 

He was thirsty and he needed to void his bowels, so he went to the cupboard and found in it several place settings. He took a chipped cup, the worst one on the shelf, and carried it to the lavatory. There, he sat on the toilet and was gratified that his bowels emptied without fuss and with minimal bleeding. He wiped carefully and washed his hands. Then, he filled the cup, and drank thirstily, repeating the exercise twice. The water was cold and clear, with just a hint of iron taste from rusted pipes.

 

He brought a full cup of water back to the storeroom, where Yuri was already waiting. The slave braced himself for a rebuke at making his master wait but Yuri merely said, "Come with me. You may bring the water, of course."

 

The slave followed Yuri back into the hallway, turning left this time. They passed two doors and then climbed steps to a sundrenched landing. There, a long table had been set up under a window, next to a bookcase holding several books as well as writing supplies.

 

There was a boy of about ten sitting at the table, working on maths problems. "Sasha," the owner said. The boy turned. "Sasha, this is your new teacher."

"Hello. How do you do?" the boy asked in a thicker accent than his father's. The slave kept his head tucked low. "My name is Sasha. What is your name?"

The slave turned to his owner, silently asking for instructions. "What do you wish for us to call you?" Yuri asked.

"Sherlock," the slave said softly after a moment, his name feeling strange in his mouth. But there was no use for subterfuge now. His cover had been blown months before. "My name is Sherlock."

"I am pleased to meet you, Sherlock. Can you help me with my maths?"

"Yes."

"I think you two will get along just fine," Yuri said. "I'll leave you alone for now. We'll talk about curriculum later."

 

Sherlock and the boy sat for hours working on multiplication and division problems. Sasha did not seem to understand Sherlock's status and acted as though he had found a new best friend. Perhaps he had.

 

Mid-afternoon, Yuri rematerialized. "That's enough for today. Sasha, you may go out and play. Sherlock, I'll show you the way to the back garden. After Sasha's lessons are done, your time is your own until after dinner. You can go outside, nap, or read. I put some English books in the storeroom for you."

 

Sherlock followed Yuri back down to the hallway and they went to the end, past the storeroom and the lavatory, to a heavy door that opened into a walled back garden.

 

"The only places you are allowed to be when not with Sasha are the storeroom, the hallway, the lavatory, and this back garden, as well as the kitchen when the cook is ready for you. If I need you between lessons and morning, I will find you in one of these locations."

"Yes, Yuri."

"I will see you after breakfast tomorrow. The cook will bring your evening meal into the storeroom and that will be your cue to clean the kitchen. It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. Then you can sleep. I put a clock in your room. Lessons will start at nine."

"Understood."

 

Yuri left him then in the garden and Sherlock breathed in heavily. The air was so fresh it made his lungs ache. There was nowhere to sit but against the trunk of a tree and he carefully sank down to rest against it. He tried to find his way into his mind palace, but it was shut tight. He sighed and closed his eyes.

 

It was dusk when he woke and he panicked for a moment, trying to remember where he was before worrying that he was late for his evening work. He made his way back to the storeroom quickly.

 

The clock sitting on the table said it was just past seven. Next to it was a bowl of cabbage soup, still warm, and a large slice of bread spread thinly with butter. The house was quiet and Sherlock allowed himself the luxury of eating his meal slowly, enjoying the distended feel of his belly.

 

He carried the bowl into the kitchen, expecting to find an insurmountable task, but the room was quite tidy, save for a large pile of dirty dishes. He worked his way through them, putting away what he could, leaving the rest piled neatly, hoping that the cook would not expect him to be a mind reader. He then wiped down all the surfaces, the cabinet doors, and scrubbed out the fridge and hob. He finished by mopping the floor. He hoped it was enough and dreaded the beating, or worse, that he would get if it was not.

 

When he returned to the storeroom, the clock said it was nearly eleven. He toed off his shoes and stripped to his tee-shirt and pants before crawling into the pallet. He was surprised to find that the bunk was soft and inviting, the sheets worn but clean. He buried his face into the pillow and waited for the inevitable, but the room was so dark and quiet that he fell asleep quickly.


	10. Mycroft and Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really hope someone runs with this one because I'd like to know what happened!

Lestrade looked like he had aged twenty years in the past two days. He frowned as Mycroft Holmes was led into his office. "What is it?" he asked.

"I'm just hoping someone can talk sense into that brother of mine. Regrettable as it is, he seems to listen to you more than he does me. His behaviour is absolutely ridiculous."

Greg was on his feet and in Mycroft's face before he knew what he was doing. When he spoke, he didn't care that spittle splattered Mycroft's face, causing him to flinch. "Listen to me, you fucking cad. You have no idea what he went through in there and you are going to find out." He grabbed Mycroft's arm hard enough to bruise and dragged him out of the office to a nearby interview room and bodily forced him into a chair. "You are going to watch the video. No, don't you fucking dare move. You are going to watch what they did to him and then you can make an educated decision about whether he is being ridiculous or not."

Greg played the video and stepped out of the room. Mycroft watched it. And then he barely made it to a bin before being violently ill.

 


	11. I Still Have No Idea What Happened to Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is related to the snippet in chapter 10. Catatonic and then mute Sherlock? Someone, please expand on this!

John wasn't sure if today was an improvement or not. Instead of lying nearly catatonic in bed, Sherlock was pacing around the room, wringing his hands, distressed sounds rising out of his throat, but no actual words forming on his lips. His eyes were bright and feverish and he did not acknowledge his guest.

_(some time later)_

Sherlock allowed Mary to hug him, but did not reciprocate. "Why don't you go get settled and then come help me in the kitchen?" He headed for the spare room.

So it was a good day, she realised, when Sherlock came into the kitchen ten minutes later and started assembling sandwiches. She had laid out all the ingredients and he buttered bread; layered the tomato, cheese, and ham; and dipped the sandwiches in egg. When they sat down to eat, he picked slowly at his meal, but still ate an entire sandwich while showing no interest in the potato salad or the chocolate cake Mary had made for pudding.

Lunch done, she had him sit on the sofa so he could feed the baby. After, he put her down for a nap, he did the same. It was just past half two when he emerged from his room, hair flattened on one side. Mary and John were in the lounge reading and he went to the kitchen. He came out a few minutes later carrying a tray holding three mugs of tea and a piece of the cake he'd refused at lunch. Mary caught John's eye and smiled.

 


	12. The Slave, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think anyone was interested in this, but here's part two for juliaoh. There are six parts in total, plus additional bits and bobs to it, but I won't post more unless specifically asked for it.

Sherlock woke of his own accord to weak sunlight pouring in from the small window over his bunk. It took him a moment to place himself. He rose and checked the clock, three minutes to seven. The house was quiet. He dressed and grabbed his cup before padding to his lavatory. He used the toilet, then washed his face and cleaned his teeth, forgoing a shave. His wrists, ankles, and throat throbbed, the skin tight and starting to scab over. He allowed a moment to wash the wounds gently with soap.

 

There was noise coming from the kitchen when he returned to the storeroom. He sat at the table, looking through the small pile of books Yuri had left him. They were all classics of English literature. He had stopped reading novels as a child, but his boyhood favourite, _Treasure Island_ , was in the stack and he opened it.

 

A few chapters in and enjoying his reprieve from the real world, there was a light rap at the door to the kitchen. When it did not open immediately, he croaked out, "Come?"

 

The cook came into the room, a sour-looking giant of a woman, not so much fat as well muscled.

"Come and put the dishes away. I'll show you where," she said in good English, her voice softer than expected. It was not a reproach.

Sherlock nodded and followed her into the kitchen, where he put away mixing bowls, pans, and a dizzying array of utensils.

"We'll do this every morning until you will know where everything goes."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Go back to your room. I'll have some breakfast for you shortly."

"Thank you, ma'am."

 

He had time to read several more chapters when the cook came in again, not knocking this time. She handed him a plate with a piece of toast, a fried egg, a bit of ham, and several segments of orange. "Don't get used to this. It will usually just be toast or porridge." She pulled a small tube out of the pocket of her apron and set it by his plate. "This is cream for your hurts, to protect them."

"Thank you, ma'am." She gave him a small smile and left him to eat his breakfast in peace.

 

He managed the eggs, toast, and ham, but the first segment of orange was so sweet and tart on the tongue that he could not contain his tears. He wiped at them furiously, angry at how ridiculous he was. It was just fruit. They were bribing him, lulling him into complacency. And for what? If the last months were any indication, it would be horrors he could not yet fathom.

 

His breakfast done, he applied some of the antibiotic cream. It was cool and soothed the burning and itching. He hesitated a moment and then stood to reach behind himself, working his hand into his trousers and pants to smooth a little between his arse cheeks. After, he went to the lavatory to wash his hands and get water.

 

When the clock read five minutes to nine, he headed out into the hallway and up to the schoolroom. Yuri and Sasha were waiting for him.

"Right on time," Yuri smiled. "Did you have breakfast?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Yulia said you did your work exceedingly well last night. You must have been at it for hours. Did you manage any sleep?"

Sherlock nodded. "I slept well, thank you."

"Good. Today, you and Sasha will do English literature in the morning and geography in the afternoon."

"All right."

 

Sherlock took his place beside the boy. "Let me see your book," he said. Sasha passed him an anthology of short stories. Sherlock flipped through it, not recognising any of the authors. "Show me how well you read."

 

The morning passed quickly, Sasha reading well, with Sherlock interrupting him periodically to correct pronunciations and explain terms.

 

Mid-day, the cook called Sasha to have his lunch. "I'll see you at one," Sasha said before bounding down the stairs.

 

Sherlock made his way down to the lavatory and then to the storeroom. The clock read 11:47. He picked up _Treasure_ _Island_ again, keeping a mindful glance at the clock. The cook came in and gave him a glass of warm milk, thick with butter fat, and after the large breakfast he'd had, this was an almost too filling lunch. He was surprised to have anything else this day, expecting that he would have to use water to quell his hunger pangs. Having all the good water he wanted to drink was an incredible luxury. That the family obviously had at least one dairy cow was inconceivable because it meant that butter and milk and maybe even cheese could very well be daily gifts.

 

For the afternoon, they labeled a map of Canada with the names of the provinces and capital cities. "I will live here one day," Sasha said, pointing to the city of Saskatoon. "I have an uncle there. Have you ever been to Canada?"

Sherlock nodded. "Once. A long time ago."

"When you were a boy?"

"No, I was a young man. I went to the city of Montreal. It would be here," he said, pointing to a spot on the map between the national capital of Ottawa and the provincial capital of Quebec City.

"Did you like it?"

Truth be told, he had been so coked out of his mind that the experience was little more than a blur. He had been coming off the high of the Hudson case in Florida. It felt like more than a lifetime ago, and too much to tell the boy of his owner. So he said yes.

 

Lessons done for the day, he picked up his book and retreated to the garden. When he came in around seven, there was a small ham and cheese sandwich waiting for him next to a large pickle. The bread was a little stale, made up for by a thin layer of butter on one slice and mustard on the other, but the ham and cheese were fresh and the pickle crunchy and savoury with dill and garlic. He again savoured his meal.

 

The kitchen was tidier this evening and he knew that he did not need to scrub as hard as he had the night before. The room hadn't gotten dirty enough in one day for that.

 

When he was done, it was just past nine. He took his shower, then finished his book and went to bed. No one came to disturb his sleep.


	13. The Slave, Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does freedom truly mean?

Life would continue in this routine, with little variation, for the better part of three months. There were no beatings, Yuri did not take him to his bed, and the boy's love of learning made the hours spent together almost joyful. Sherlock's meals were monotonous, but regular, and he even found himself gaining a little weight thanks to the lunchtime glass of milk. If he was to be a slave, he accepted that he had found his place.

 

One late summer or early autumn afternoon, Yuri came into the back garden just as Sherlock was thinking of going in to eat his supper.

"Tomorrow, you will help us with the potato harvest,” Yuri said.

"Of course." Sherlock still refused to look at him, keeping his gaze focused on a large tree root breaking through the ground.

"You will wait for me here at six tomorrow morning. Yulia will have something for you to eat on the truck."

"All right."

"It will be a long hard day, I will tell you that. But it will feed us for the winter. Now, go in and have your supper and get a good rest." Yuri knew that no answer was forthcoming beyond a yes and so he did not wait for one.

 

When Sherlock returned to his room from the lavatory at ten minutes to six the next morning, there was a sandwich waiting for him, wrapped in wax paper, as well as a small glass bottle of milk. He took the food and his jumper and went out to the garden to wait for Yuri. Minutes later, he was sitting in the back of a truck with Sasha and other family members he had occasionally seen, but never spoken to. Sasha was quiet, obviously not accustomed to the early morning.

 

As the truck took off down a rutty road, the others unwrapped their own sandwiches and Sherlock took that as permission to eat his breakfast. It was a ham, cheese, and fried egg butty, still warm and impossibly delicious. He wanted to savour it, but did not know how long the ride would be. So he made quick work of it, then had his milk. The heavy meal made him feel drowsy in the early morning hour, but he knew it would sustain him through a morning of hard physical labour, something to which he was not accustomed.

 

After perhaps a half hour, the truck stopped at a large field and everyone got off. "Come with me," a woman told him, holding a pitchfork and tarp. He followed and she guided him to the beginning of a row of potato plants. "This is how you find the potatoes," she said, pushing the pitchfork into the earth and upturning it to reveal the tubers. "You turn the earth and then you go through it with your hands to make sure you have them all." She handed Sherlock the pitchfork and opened the tarp. "You pile the potatoes on that. Someone will be by to pick them up when it is full."

 

Deeming her instructions clear, she walked off towards another part of the field, leaving Sherlock alone in the cool morning air that smelled so richly of humus. For a brief second, he thought of making a run for it, then dropped to his knees, gasping at the bold absurdity of the thought. Make a run for where and to what?

 

He plunged his hands into the cool soil and began to pull out potatoes.

 

The sun was high in the sky and he had stripped off his upper layers, naked scarred torso gleaming brightly with sweat, when Yulia appeared with a bucket of water and a dipper. He gratefully drank his fill and smiled when she handed him in an apple and a hunk of cheese. "Take ten minutes for a rest," she told him and he accepted her offer when she'd gone, dropping gratefully onto his bottom. His hands were already forming blisters, his fingers sore from all the dirt jammed under his nail beds. The apple was sweet and crisp. Its juice dripped down his chin and he lapped at it with his long tongue. The salty cheese was a pleasing contrast and he ate it in several slow bites. Then, he got back to work.

 

It was past mid-day and some time after the ringing of a bell that Sasha came bounding up to him. "Sherlock! Time for lunch!"

 

Sherlock wiped his brow, blinking at the sting of salt in his eyes. He let out a harsh breath, more than ready to collapse into the dirt for a spell. His breakfast and snack were long gone, his stomach twisting angrily.

 

"Did you hear me? Come for lunch, Sherlock!"

"I'm sure lunch is not meant for me, Sasha," he said softly.

"But Papa told me to come fetch you!"

 

Of course. Yuri surely needed help with something before Sherlock could take the rest that he knew he would be allowed if the others had some. He gathered his remaining energy and followed the boy a short distance down a dirt track to an open area where a dozen people sat in the grass, balancing plates of food in their lap.

"Found him, Papa!" Sasha called to Yuri.

Yuri took a few long strides to Sherlock. "I'm sorry. I should have told you that the bell meant lunch. Yulia has a plate waiting for you."

 

Sasha took Sherlock's left hand and tugged it. "Come! Yulia's over there. She's been cooking all morning!" Sherlock allowed the boy to guide him to the cook.

 

"Ah, there you are," she said. "Your food's still warm. Special lunch for everyone today, reward for the harvest."

 

Sherlook took the plate and glanced at it, his gaze dulled by fatigue. Pierogies, sour cream, fried onions, sausage, carrots, sauerkraut, buttered bread, and beets. "All for me?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Of course. Go sit. I'll bring you some cake later."

"Come, Sherlock!" Sasha exclaimed.

 

Sherlock let himself be guided away from the table and carefully lowered himself to the ground. He picked up his fork and stared at his plate for a long moment, not sure where to begin. A carrot seemed easy, then a beet, and soon he had tried everything. The food was exquisite on the tongue and settled comfortably in his belly. Water materialized thanks to Sasha and then a sliver of chocolate cake with butter frosting, the sweetness making his teeth ache.

 

When he was done, he saw that the others were all lying about, taking a well earned rest, so he stretched out on his side as well. He did not sleep, but dozed lightly until a bell rang again, clearly announcing the return to work. As he headed back up the hill, Yuri called out to him. "Come back here when you've finished your section. That will be the end of the day."

 

It was only a few hours later that Sherlock found himself at the end of his last row, certain that he had found all the potatoes in his section. He made his way back to the meadow and saw others coming to it from all directions. A man he had never seen came to him and pointed to a box, telling him to help himself to a couple of apples. He selected two that seemed especially bruised and found himself a comfortable patch of grass on which to sit to eat them.

 

The truck returned perhaps a half hour later and Sherlock climbed in wearily. He was sunburned and muscles he didn't know he had ached, but he felt well. It had been a hard day, but he knew that he would get his share of the potatoes he had harvested. It was the first time in his life that he had ever truly worked for his own food, dirtied his hands to coax it from the ground, and it was surprisingly satisfying.

 

When he got in, he promptly went to the lavatory and showered, lingering longer than usual under a cool spray, then changed into his spare set of clothes. He put his dirty one in the hallway to be magically laundered for him, as laundry back home had always been done. Home. Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson. John. He had not thought of home in months and suddenly his chest felt tight. He quickly pushed the thought away.

 

The clock read five when he returned to his room. He was bodily tired and collapsed into the battered armchair that had materialised in the room's empty corner a few weeks before. He reached beside it blindly to find the book he was reading, a translated volume of de Maupassant's stories, but found he was too tired to focus on it.

 

Instead, he hauled himself out of the chair with a grunt and went to the table, where he had started a jigsaw puzzle a few nights before. One afternoon, he had been looking longingly through Sasha's pile of puzzles while waiting for the boy to return from lunch. Yuri must have witnessed this because he came into the classroom at the end of lessons and casually told Sherlock he was welcome to borrow puzzles if he wanted to. They offered a pleasant distraction and broke the monotony of his routine. He had two more to make before he'd done them all.

 

Yulia came in an hour later with a steaming bowl of potato soup. "You will soon tire of potatoes," she chuckled.

"Unlikely. Thank you, Yulia."

"There's nothing that needs to be done in the kitchen that cannot wait until tomorrow evening, all right?"

"All right," he replied gratefully.

"And there are no lessons tomorrow morning. So I may be late with your breakfast."

"Understood."

 

The soup was savoury with onions and ham and rich with cream. He could not imagine ever wanting anything else as it was quite possibly the best thing he had ever eaten.

 

He worked on his puzzle long into the evening and woke late the next morning, sore joints popping and his sunburned skin tight as he stretched. The house was quiet, everyone enjoying a rest after the previous day's labour. He read, then spent an hour cleaning his room and lavatory before Yulia brought him toast and cheese. He took his breakfast outside, settling himself against the trunk of the tree with his book, a cup of water, and the food, feeling free for the first time in recent memory.

 

What was freedom anyway? A measure of choice and self-determination, but always within certain parameters. Within the context of this life, one in which humans bought and sold other humans, in which he had gone to the highest bidder, had been made to suffer and endure humiliation, had been kept pliant with drugs and the witholding of food, belonging to a man who treated him humanely and allowed him options was freedom.

 

But was it enough, for this to be all that there ever would be? The boy would grow and the lessons end. What then? Despite the tranquility of the morning, Sherlock felt a frisson of fear. He was growing too complacent, forgetting that the east wind would come back for him as it always did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The digging up potatoes thing is based on a real and transformative experience that I've had.


	14. The Slave, Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The East Wind comes for Sherlock.

And come it did, one day in late November, early on a chilly grey morning with frost on the ground. Sherlock's room was overwarm and he had just come back from taking a breath of fresh air before lessons, his pallid cheeks tinged with pink.

 

Yuri was in the room, packing Sherlock's books into a bag. "I got a good offer for you some weeks ago and the details of your transfer have finally been arranged. We will leave right now," he said without preamble. Sherlock was so shocked by this unexpected turn of events that he actually looked up, meeting his owner's gaze for a moment. He quickly averted his eyes. "I know this is a surprise, but the offer was too good. I will be able to send Sasha to study with his uncle in Canada. Sasha?"

The boy had been waiting in the kitchen and he ran into the room, throwing his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock hugged him tightly. His voice shook as he spoke, "I will miss you, Sasha. Be good to your new teacher."

The boy said nothing, clinging to Sherlock tightly. He suddenly pulled away quickly and ran back to the kitchen.

"Come, Sherlock," Yuri said gently. "It's time to go."

"Shackles?" Sherlock asked hoarsely.

"No need for them. Come. We have a long drive to the exchange point."

 

Yulia met them at the rear door, passing Sherlock a sack of food. For a moment, her arms came up and he thought she would hug him, but she changed her mind. "Be well, Sherlock."

"My whole life, I will be grateful for you, Yulia," he said.

 

Yuri led him to a waiting car and opened the passenger door, pushing the seat forward so Sherlock could climb into the back. He folded himself into the cramped space and then Yuri passed him the bag filled with Sherlock's few possessions.

 

They drove for hours through the barren countryside, passing only the odd farmhouse. At Yuri's urging, Sherlock choked down the cold potato stuffed with bacon and cheese Yulia had packed for him and immediately felt unwell, the knot in his stomach tighening with every kilometre. Yuri was a good man, but all men had a price. Sherlock did not believe in lines that could never be crossed because he had crossed one such line himself, which ultimately brought him to this place. Yuri's price was his son's future and Sherlock was a small cost to pay.

 

Yuri eventually turned down a rutty track in a forest and came to a stop a short distance later. Sherlock looked up to peer through the dirty windscreen to see a small building with two armed guards. "This is it," Yuri said.

Sherlock swallowed down bile, still not understanding. He waited for Yuri to open the door and move the seat, then clumsily made his way out of the car.

"See that car down there?" Yuri asked, pointing. Sherlock nodded. "You will speak to these men and then you will go to that car. Thank you, Sherlock, for all you have done for my family." Yuri reached in his pocket and handed Sherlock the last thing he ever expected to see again.

 

He stared in shock at his passport. He began to understand, even if he did not believe it.

 

Clutching the precious booklet and his bag, he made his way to the guards. The taller one asked a question in a language Sherlock did not recognise. "Papers!" the man said harshly in English. Sherlock gave him his passport. The man barely gave it a glance before passing it back. "Welcome to Hungary."

 

Hungary was neutral territory from the last scrap of news he had heard. He had his passport, still valid for several years. He was suddenly eager to know what was waiting for him in the car, the knot in his stomach inexplicably loosening. He took a few steps towards the vehicle and a man emerged from the back seat, tall, with dark hair and wearing an expensive overcoat. The shock of this sight brought Sherlock to his knees in the frozen mud and he could only remain there, unable to process all the changes that were happening too quickly.

 

The man in the overcoat crossed the gap between them and knelt beside Sherlock. "Come, brother mine," he said gently. "The car is warm."

"Mycroft..." And quite suddenly and against all natural instinct to maintain a façade of strength, Sherlock found his arms wrapped around his brother, his shoulders shaking with ragged sobs, tears soaking the lapel of the coat.

 

Mycroft held him as he had not done since they were boys, giving Sherlock the time he needed to compose himself. They finally made it into the backseat of the car. "We're going straight to Baker Street," Mycroft told him as the car pulled away. "You'll be there by mid-afternoon London time." Sherlock could only blink at his brother, still processing his change of circumstance. "Here," Mycroft said passing him a bottle of water after twisting off the cap.

Sherlock mechanically took a few sips of water then rubbed his eyes. Mycroft passed him a hankerchief and Sherlock wet it from the bottle, not caring that he spilled some on his lap, then wiped his face.

Mycroft wrapped an arm around him and Sherlock let himself be pulled into his brother's warm embrace, burrowing against the scratchy wool coat, and fell into a light doze.

 

He woke on his own when the car stopped sometime later. "Airport," Mycroft murmured. Sherlock allowed himself to be guided onto the small private plane, choosing a window seat. He pressed his face against the window and kept it there the whole of the flight, eager not to miss the first sight of London. The east wind was taking him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, yes, Mycroft has known for some time now where Sherlock has been and that he was safe. It just took some work to get him out.


	15. The Slave, Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming.
> 
> The story gets sloppier here. I have one more part, then a few scattered scenes.

Upon landing, they transferred to another car that slipped smoothly into London traffic. Sherlock sat on the edge of his seat, gazing around him, looking for the first familiar landmarks that would tell him he was truly home. The car turned onto the Marylebone Road and his breath caught. One more turn. There. Baker Street. 219 and then the familiar black door.

 

In a daze, he allowed Mycroft to help him out of the car, into the foyer, and up the seventeen steps to his flat.

 

When he had left, almost two years before, Sherlock had been certain that this time he was leaving for good. He had committed his home to memory, right down to the scratches on the wallpaper along the staircase. He knew every step, where the boards were uneven and creaked. He did not need to be present to get to the flat. He could do so in his memory, pretending that he was impeccably dressed in a suit, his beloved Belstaff coat billowing behind him, instead of in rags and desperately needing a haircut.

 

He returned to the moment as Mycroft guided him into the sitting room. There were John, sitting in his red chair, and Mrs. Hudson, perched on the couch. They jumped up when they saw him.

 

He could only stare blankly at them, suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of the day's events.

 

Mrs. Hudson broke the spell. "Oh, Sherlock." She wrapped her arms around him and he fell into her embrace. "My dear boy. It's over. You're home, and for good this time. Your brother promised." She loosened her grip and pushed him gently down onto the sofa. John appeared beside him and tucked a blanket around his shoulders. Sherlock hadn't noticed he was shaking. Mrs. Hudson pressed a steaming cup of tea into his hands and he sipped it gratefully, finding that its familiarity was grounding him.

 

Mycroft refused tea. "I'll be by in a few days when he's ready for a debriefing. Take care of him."

"Oh, we will," Mrs. Hudson promised. "Thank you for bringing him back to us."

"Twice is becoming a dangerous habit," Mycroft replied, his voice more sad than harsh.

 

"Sherlock," John finally said. "Glad to have you back."

Sherlock looked up into his friend's deep blue eyes, seeing there a warmth he had thought was gone from his life forever. He reached out a shaky hand and John took it, his grip solid and real. "You're not dreaming. You have no idea how hard your brother worked to pull you out of there. He lost track of you for a bit."

Sherlock had nothing to say to that. He wasn't even sure he could say anything. Instead, he reached down to the coffee table and took a chocolate biscuit from the plate resting there, examining it for a moment before taking a nibble of it.

 

The three of them sat quietly for almost an hour, sipping tea and working their way through the plate of biscuits. Mrs. Hudson finally rose. "I have to go check on the soup. I'll be back with supper in a little while."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," John said for both of them.

 

"How about a bath and a change of clothes?" John asked Sherlock after Mrs. Hudson had gone. He was rewarded with a blank stare. "I know you probably don't much feel like talking, but it won't get any easier the longer you wait."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times before finding something to say. "What did you name your daughter?"

John smiled. "Mina."

Sherlock processed that for a moment. "You did name her after me."

"Of course we did."

"Can I see her?"

"I'm staying with you tonight. Mary wants to come for lunch with Mina tomorrow."

"I'd like that."

"Good."

"How's Mary?"

"We're both well. I'm working at an A&E now, more my pace. Longer and more erratic hours, but Mary's staying home with Mina and it's working out. We're going to be okay."

"I'm glad, John. And I'll have that bath now."

"I'll be here. Let me know if you need anything."

 

Sherlock returned to the sitting room some forty minutes later, dressed in what had been his favourite pajamas and dressing gown. His hair was still wet and he'd slicked it back, revealing his damaged ear. To his credit, John only gave it a quick glance before asking if it still hurt. "No."

"Do you need to see a doctor about anything? Are you in pain?"

"No pain, but I'll need some tests." Sherlock bit his lower lip as awareness dawned in John's eyes.

"Oh. Right. I'll get that set up for you. Um, Mrs. H. brought up cock-a-leekie soup while you were in the bath, extra prunes. Hungry?"

"I'm always hungry," Sherlock said quietly, as though it was a shameful secret.

John squeezed his eyes shut. "Christ. Mycroft said that you've been in an okay place for a while. But I guess that doesn't mean there was enough food, not in the middle of a war zone." Sherlock shook his head, feeling quiet again. "Have a seat."

 

John placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of him. Sherlock could only remember having chicken twice since he'd been gone and couldn't even recall if he liked it. He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully, pleasant memories flooding his tastebuds. So this was why Mrs. Hudson had made the soup, it had been one of his favourite things to eat.

John interrupted this reflection. "Mary made that onion and cheese bread that you like. Do you want it fresh or toasted?"

"Fresh. Please. Butter?"

"Definitely. Start on the soup." John turned back to the worktop and quickly sliced the bread thickly, just the way Sherlock had liked it. He buttered two slices and brought them to the table.

 

Sherlock ate his meal slowly, mindful of the biscuits he had eaten not so long ago. He finished the bowl of soup and then made his way through the slice of bread. "Enough?" John asked when he was done. Sherlock nodded. "Do you want tea or biscuits or anything else?" Sherlock shook his head.

 

He stood and took both his bowl and John's to the sink, where he ran water for the washing up.

 

John came up beside him. "You don't have to do that, Sherlock." Sherlock's shoulders shook and John rested a hand on the right one, withdrawing it as Sherlock flinched. "Let it go. Come and sit with me in the lounge for a bit."

"I have to do the washing up after supper," Sherlock insisted in a monotone voice. "I do the washing up after supper and I teach Sasha his lessons and then I don't get beaten and I get breakfast and supper and milk at lunch and sometimes even an apple and I get to go sit in the garden and read a book."

"You're not there anymore, Sherlock." John tried to gently nudge him and Sherlock pulled away sharply.

"I have to do the washing up after supper," he said again.

"Okay, okay," John conceded. "Can I least help dry?" Sherlock nodded. 

 

They went into the lounge a few minutes later. Sherlock chose to sit in his chair, drawing up his knees.

"Been a big day, hasn't it?" John said. Sherlock nodded. "It'll take a few days to adjust."

"I miss Sasha already."

"Who was Sasha?"

"The boy I tutored."

John nodded. "Mycroft said something about getting a boy out of there in exchange for your freedom. Did his father ever hurt you?"

Sherlock gave a firm shake of his head. "Yuri was a good man. I know that now. But I never stopped expecting he would be like my first owner."

"Christ," John said, understanding what Sherlock was not telling him. "Oh God, Sherlock. I'm so sorry."

"It's just transport, isn't it, John? Why is the act of forced genital to genital contact more significant than a punch to the face or kick to the knee? I don't understand that." John reached over and placed a hand on his knee. Sherlock jerked away.

"That's why, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock mulled that over, rocking slightly as he held his knees tightly against his chest. "Who knows that I'm back?" he asked finally.

"Mycroft told your parents, Mrs. Hudson, Mary, and me. That's it."

"Can I have a few days before we tell anyone else?"

"Of course."

"I just -- I --" He wasn't even sure he knew what he wanted to say.

But John, John didn't need words. "It's okay Sherlock. It's all fine. Just take your time. Are you tired?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not especially. I always got enough rest in a good bed. I just feel..."

"Wrung out?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Do you want me to give you anything to help you sleep tonight?"

"No. I should call my mum."

That earned him a look from John. "Really?"

"I made a promise. I'm late in keeping it, but I am."

"I think I should probably talk to her first. I mean, she knows you're back, but you actually calling her right away might give her a heart attack."

Sherlock actually chuckled. "You're right."

 

John reached for the landline phone and pressed the preprogrammed number for the Holmes' house in Kent. "Hi, mum," he greeted Mrs. Holmes, the name not feeling as strange on his tongue as it once had. He and Mary had spent many weekends at the red cottage, Sherlock's parents happily falling into the role of surrogate grandparents to Mina.

"John, darling, is Sherlock home?"

"He is. He was going to call you, but I thought I'd give you a heads up."

"I might well have had a heart attack if you hadn't, dear!"

John laughed. "That's what I thought. I'm passing him the phone now. He might be a little quiet."

"My boy has never had much to say to me. Thank you, John."

 

John handed Sherlock the receiver and he clutched it for a long minute before speaking into it, just one word, "Mum." John smiled fondly at his best friend and headed to the loo to give the pair some privacy.


	16. The Slave, Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last solid bit for this universe, then a bunch of scenes that form a skeleton of where I was going with this.

A few days later, DI Greg Lestrade answered a call from John. "Sherlock's back," John said without preamble.

Lestrade let out a relieved sigh. "How is he?"

"Not good. Really not good, Greg. He... Christ, he was betrayed by a contact and sold into the sex trade." Lestrade gasped. "Mycroft thinks he was in that situation for a year. I've seen the scars. It was bad. Then, he got bought by a decent bloke who wanted an English teacher for his son, but the damage was done. He's subservient, barely talking, won't look at anyone, and flinches when he's touched. Mary and I are thinking of taking him in. It's that or getting him sectioned. I spent two nights with him and then came home. Mrs. H. brought him breakfast that first morning alone and found him on the floor of the loo, scrubbing the tiles with his toothbrush. She thinks he was there all night."

"What?!"

"Yeah. He's been on a cleaning frenzy. Mycroft's working on a referral for a shrink. Based on the little I know of the field, I think it's a way for him to assert control over his environment. Mycroft yanked him out of there so fast he never had time to process it."

"Tell you what, John. I'm going to go see him and how he reacts to me. If it's fine, I'll stay with him for a bit. You and Mary have your hands full."

"Okay. Thanks, Greg. And just so you know, he's starving mad hungry all the time."

"Got it. I'll let you know how it goes."

 

A couple of hours later, Lestrade rapped lightly on the doorframe to 221b's sitting room. "Sherlock?" he called out. He let himself in when there was no answer. The sitting room was spotless, perfectly tidied with not an item out of its logical place. The kitchen was the same. He called again for Sherlock. When he still didn't get an answer, he dropped his overnight bag on the floor and a sack of takeaway onto the table, then proceeded towards the bedroom at the back of the flat.

 

He found Sherlock on his hands in knees in his closet, scrubbing at the floorboards with a stiff brush. "Sherlock, it's G- -- Lestrade." Sherlock jumped. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. I did call you a couple of times."

Sherlock backed out of the closet and looked to Lestrade with a confused look. "Ga- -- Greg?"

"Yeah. It's Greg. John told me you were back." He held out a hand to help Sherlock up, but Sherlock ignored it. "Glad to have you back." Sherlock just stared at him. "I brought lunch. Pad Thai."

"Is it lunchtime, yet?"

"It sure is. How long have you been here?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. I lose my time."

"Well, it's definitely time for lunch. I'll get the kettle on while you wash up, okay?" Sherlock wordlessly headed into the bathroom.

 

Sherlock attacked his Pad Thai with a zeal that made Lestrade happy with his choice, even though he knew that anything else would have likely been just as welcome.

"Are you staying?" Sherlock asked after he swallowed his last bite.

"If it's okay."

"You can take John's old room. I cleaned it yesterday. Don't you have work?"

"Nothing pressing right now. I can work from here. Thought you might like some company."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Hmph. John called you."

"He's worried about you. We all are."

"I am perfectly capable of staying on my own."

Lestrade shook his head. "What are you going to do after you've scrubbed the pattern off the lino?"

"Don't exaggerate."

"Well, that's where you're heading. Get dressed. It's a gorgeous day and you're going to get some fresh air."

 

Sherlock spent some time in his room before emerging dressed in dark jeans, a white shirt, and a jacket. His beloved coat was hanging in his wardrobe, but he couldn't bring himself to put it on. It belonged to another man.

 

He allowed Lestrade to lead him out of the flat and to Regent's Park where they walked without talking for the better part of an hour.

 

As they headed back to Baker Street, Lestrade noticed that Sherlock was showing marked interest in the sweets shops. "How about an ice cream?" he asked.

"I didn't bring any money."

Lestrade would have laughed had Sherlock's new incarnation as docile and childlike not been so devastating. "It's okay. I can spring for ice cream." He guided Sherlock into a shop. "Have whatever you like. One scoop of coffee in a waffle cone for me, please."

 

Sherlock took a moment, overwhelmed by the choices, but finally settled on just one scoop of plain chocolate.


	17. The Slave, First Batch of Extended Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most of these are just brushstrokes.

1) 

"Hello? Oh, yes. Does he need me to come in? I see. No. That's fine. Thank you for calling." Sherlock clicked off the phone and stared at it for a moment.

"Sherlock?"

"That was my doctor's office with the results of my STI panel. I'm perfectly healthy."

 

2)

”Mycroft?"

"Hello, John. I have an idea about Sherlock."

John sighed. "I hope it's better than mine."

"You mean having him sectioned?"

"Yeah."

"I believe it is."

 

John hung up with Mycroft and called Mrs. Hudson.

 

A few days later, John pulled up to 221b. Mrs. Hudson was waiting at the door, smiling. She wordlessly let him in, then went to his car to fetch some things out of the boot.

 

"Sherlock?" John called coming into the kitchen.

"Bedroom. I'm coming." John heard the creak of footfall on the floorboards and positioned himself so that Sherlock could see him as soon as he entered the kitchen. It seemed that his friend shrank more and more each time John saw him, his stoop more pronounced, his bones more prominent. His hair was thinning and dull, his clothes too large and sloppy. He looked ancient.

 

Sherlock stopped short of the sitting room when he saw what John had brought. "Is that for me?" he asked in a trembling voice.

"No. It's for Mrs. Turner's married ones. Of course it's for you, you cock."

 

Sherlock slid to his knees in front of the beagle John had set on the floor. The dog promptly gave Sherlock a nose bump and angled his head for an ear rub. Sherlock gladly obliged, stroking the dog carefully and when the tail began to wag, he sat back and pulled the dog into his lap. The dog burrowed in. Had he been a cat, he would have been purring.

 

He looked up at John, eyes bright. "What's his name?"

John laughed. "Bob."

"Bob." Sherlock actually chuckled.

"He's eight. Probably too late to change it now. His previous owner was an elderly lady who passed away a few weeks ago. I know he's a little old, but I think you both need each other."

"Mycroft's idea?"

"Yeah."

"Can you pass me my phone?" John took it from the coffee table and passed it over. Sherlock fired off a quick text and then turned his attention back to his new friend.

 

"You did well, Mycroft. Great suggestion. Can I ask you something?"

"Thank you."

"Sorry?"

"Sherlock texted me 'thank you.'"

"Oh. Wow."

 

3)

"Sherlock, I'm sorry I haven't be had a chance to see you in a few weeks... You don't want to hear loads of excuses, I know."

"John, it's okay. I appreciate the calls and texts."

"Well, we want you over for dinner on Saturday, if you're free."

"I'd like that."

"Do you want me to pick you up?"

"If Bob's welcome, I can make my own way."

"Of course Bob's welcome. I think he'll get along great with Mina. So see you around... four?"

"I'll be there."

 

Mary answered Sherlock's ring at the door. Her mouth fell open when she saw him. "Oh my God." She burst out laughing.

"Mary?" John asked, coming into the hallway. "What's so funny?"

"I have no idea," Sherlock said.

"It's either laugh or cry, I'm so relieved!" Mary made out between wheezes. "Sherlock, you look so well!"

 

John took in the sight of his friend. What a difference three weeks had made. Sherlock was standing a little straighter and wearing not only a new suit, but also his Belstaff, and he'd had a haircut. "You've put on weight!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock smiled proudly. "Almost two stone! Walking Bob helped me regain my appetite."

John pulled Sherlock to him tightly and Sherlock let him. Mary took Bob's leash. "Come on, miracle boy, I've got a little bit of roast and bacon fat for you."

 

"What's in the bag?" John asked after releasing Sherlock.

Sherlock chuckled. "My therapist suggested I get a new hobby and proposed cooking. At first, I thought it was an idiotic idea, then realised that cooking is just a form of chemistry. So I started doing it and figured that a hard working married couple with a young child could use an emergency lasagna on standby in their freezer. I made two and shared the first with Mrs. Hudson, who assured me that it's perfectly edible."

John laughed, taking the bag. "I'm sure it is. Ta!"

 

4)

Can I bring a file for you to look at? GL

Okay. SH

Be there in an hour? GL

About to order Chinese. For two? SH

Ta! GL

 

"Wow. John wasn't kidding when he said you were better!" Lestrade exclaimed as he came into the flat through the kitchen door. Sherlock was arranging takeout containers and putting out plates. "So where's this Bob of yours?"

 

Bob made a sound from under the kitchen table. Lestrade knelt down and let the dog sniff his hands. Bob deemed Lestrade acceptable and angled in for an ear rub.

 

"He's a good dog," Sherlock said as Lestrade straightened. "He's always there. I had a dog like him when I was a kid. He was an Irish Setter. Never thought I'd have a dog again, but my brother, infuriating as he can be, made a good call on this one. Bob is just what I needed."

"I'm glad, Sherlock. You look great. You're eating again? Getting exercise?"

Sherlock nodded "And lots of fresh air. And Bob and I walk over to a therapist two afternoons a week."

"Oh, wow. How's that going for you?"

"It's more helpful than I expected. Now, dish up some food and show me what you have."

 

"That was incredibly helpful. Thanks, Sherlock."

"I rather enjoyed it."

"Can I call you to a scene? I can get a PC to watch Bob while you work."

Sherlock took a sharp breath. "I don't know..." He sighed. "I'm incredibly jumpy." He rolled his eyes. "Stupid involuntary reflexes."

"How about we try a small, controlled scene with only the minimum people needed?"

"I'd like to try it."

"Who would you be willing to have there? I'll need to brief them."

"Anderson," Sherlock said automatically.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, exhaling sharply. Lestrade was by his side in seconds. "Sherlock?"

"I'm okay, but I need to step away before I'm not."

"Bob's just around the corner."

 

Sherlock went to where Lestrade was pointing and found Bob on his back, belly being rubbed by PC McTavish. He twisted and jumped to his feet when he saw Sherlock. Sinking to his knees, Sherlock gathered his dog to him, clenching him tightly. After a few minutes, he heard his name and he looked up to find Donovan holding a bottle of orange juice. "You should probably drink this," she said. He nodded and accepted the bottle, taking a few small sips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, things are about to take a romantic detour...


	18. The Slave, Second Batch of Extended Scenes (End of this Universe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I ship Janine and Sherlock and won't apologise for it. :) Just be happy that I have severely edited these scenes before posting. I do have a chapter warning that is a spoiler in a note at the end for those who need that sort of thing.

6) 

"John, I want to share something with you."

"Okay..."

Sherlock took a sharp breath. "I went to Sussex last weekend to visit Janine."

"Oh?"

"We parted on good terms, believe it or not. We both got what we needed out of our 'relationship.' I never took advantage of her during the case, it's important to state that. But she made it clear that she wished that I had." John nodded, understanding where the conversation was going.

 

"I... I wanted to understand about sex. I mean, for pleasure. I didn't go to Sussex with the express intent of being with Janine. I mean, I didn't know if she'd still be interested after all this time. But I came prepared and I let her know that I was open to it."

"Okay…”

"She wasn't with anyone and didn't need any convincing." He let out a quiet huff. "It was a very educational weekend."

"Did you like it?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip. "In the end, yes. It took a while to get past the barriers and get comfortable. But Janine was kind and patient and once the bond was established and I knew I could trust her and I saw what I could do to her, yes, it was enjoyable." He sighed and looked down. "I... I'm not feeling a strong urge to go out and do it again, but I did let Janine know that I'm available for recreational stress relief when she comes to London."

"Recreational stress relief. Only you, Sherlock. I'm glad for you, mate."

 

7)

"Come for dinner on Saturday?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Uh, Janine's coming to London."

"Right." John laughed. "Have fun. Next week?"

"Yes. Or how about you all come here? I've been meaning to experiment with paella."

"I doubt Mary will need convincing. I'll call you later to confirm. Have a good weekend!"

 

8)

"Did you have a good time with Janine?"

"Yes. Except for the part where Mrs. Hudson rapped loudly on the bedroom door late Sunday morning and made us get out of bed to have breakfast."

"She did not!"

"Said we had to keep our strength up. We might have been a bit... loud."

"Oh, God..." John burst out laughing.

"She's lovely, John. I really don't see myself in a proper relationship, but we took a break Sunday afternoon and took Bob for a long walk, holding hands, and I liked it. I'm surprised that I liked it, but I did."

 

9)

"Janine and I have decided to be together, sexually exclusive, I mean."

"Really?!"

"She's going to stay with me when she comes to London and I'll go out to Sussex a few nights a week and we're going to do things together besides, well, sleeping together. And I'm going to introduce her to my parents. I guess that's a proper relationship..."

"It sounds like it!"

"We're quite compatible. She's one of the rare people whose presence I can stand for long periods of time, we don't want children, and we don't have any strong desire to live together or be married. She's clever, funny, and making love to her is a better high than heroin."

"Wow. From you, that's a declaration of love."

Sherlock bit his lower lip. "Maybe it is."

 

10)

John and Mary were settled on the couch with wine when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock immediately perked up. Janine came into the room. She dropped her bag, but didn't have time to take off her coat before Sherlock greeted her with a kiss. It seemed so much more intimate than the kiss John had witnessed all those years ago because this time Sherlock was smiling at her with his eyes. "Can't believe it's been ten days," Sherlock said.

"Oh, you big romantic. I've missed you, too." She gave him another peck then peered around him to greet John and Mary. Sherlock helped her out of her coat, then went to fetch her a glass of wine.

 

They settled comfortably in his chair, Janine on his lap, and John burst out laughing. "Sorry, can't help myself."

"Déjà vu?" Janine asked.

"Oh, slightly. I'm still just as shocked."

"So's Sherlock, that he finds my presence so tolerable."

"Oh, it's more than tolerable," he said, burying his face in the nape of her neck."

"So what smells so good?"

"You. Oh, you mean from the kitchen. Coq au vin and a potato gratin."

"Ooh. Aren't I lucky my boyfriend's turned out to be such a good cook?"

"No more lucky than I am that my girlfriend actually eats." Mary and John both laughed at that.

 

11)

 

"Hi, mum."

"Sherlock! Father, it's Sherlock on the phone!"

"How are you, mum?"

"We're well, darling. How are you?"

"Better. Uh, I was thinking of coming for a visit. Next weekend, perhaps? Arrive Thursday, leave Monday?"

"Of course!"

"I'd like to bring someone for you to meet. Her name is Janine." There was a long pause. "Mum?"

"Of course, Sherlock, of course. Will Janine be needing her own room?"

"We would prefer to share if you and dad are okay with that."

"Yes, of course." She let out a happy huff.

 

12)

_Last chance to go check out that warning..._

 

"How is she?" Donovan asked the PC.

He shook his head. "She didn't make it."

Donovan sighed. "Do we have an emergency contact for her?"

"Found it in her phone. Boyfriend, that detective fellow who pretended to kill himself a few years back.."

Donovan took in a sharp breath. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah."

"Oh God. I'm going to go tell him myself."

 

Donovan had barely stepped onto the landing outside 221b when Sherlock called out, "There you are! I was starting to worry! Wait till you taste the -- you're not Janine," he said dumbly, looking at Donovan who had stepped into the doorframe to the kitchen. "What do you want?"

Donovan bit her upper lip. "Sherlock, there's no easy way to say this."

He gaped at her. "Say what?"

"It's Janine. I'm sorry, she was struck by an intoxicated driver an hour ago at a crosswalk. She died on impact."

 

13)

"Sherlock?" John called from the landing. After a moment, he tried again. "Sherlock, you home?" Thinking he might have heard a noise from the back of the flat, he made his way to Sherlock's bedroom. There, he found Sherlock on the floor by a box, weeping into one of Janine's sweaters. "Oh, Christ." John dropped to the ground and cautiously reached out to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulders. They shook harder at the contact.

 

The two remained like that for quite some time until Sherlock's sobs became sniffles and then he went quiet. Wordlessly, John got up and went to the kitchen to make tea. As the kettle whistled, he heard Sherlock go into the bathroom and then there was the sound of water running in the wash basin. By the time John had stirred milk and sugar into Sherlock's cup, Sherlock was in the kitchen, hair combed neatly, face washed, eyes red and swollen. He was still holding Janine's cardigan.

 

Taking the proferred cup, he went into the lounge and curled up his chair, shakily sipping the tea as he clung to the bit of pink wool. "What do I do with her things? The cottage is full of them. I don't -- I don't know what to do, John."

"First, you don't have to do it alone. Why don't you get Mary to help you sort through it all?"

"She's busy with Mina. You're both busy with her."

"Not that busy, Sherlock. Let us help."

"I had no idea how to fit her into my life. Now, I can't imagine my life without her. It hurts so much, John."

"I know."

"She deserved so much better. I should have --"

"No. She knew exactly who you were and she chose you, Sherlock. And you were better to her than any boyfriend she ever had. She said that to Mary countless times."

 

Sherlock looked up at John with a surprised expression. "She did?"

John smiled. "Yeah."

"But I didn't want to live with her or get married or have children and I would forget anniversaries and I think it occurred to me once to get her flowers for no reason and --"

"Sherlock. Sherlock, stop. You gave her the only thing that mattered, your heart. You trusted her with it and you never took her for granted. You might not have been the flower buying kind of boyfriend, but you showed her in a million ways that she mattered."

 

14)

"Thanks for coming, John."

"Of course." He took a look around. "I always forget about how splendid this place is.."

"Isn't it?" Sherlock guided him down the hall to the kitchen overlooking a meadow. "She's left it to me," he said as he motioned to John to sit.

"I'm not surprised. What are you going to do with it?"

"John, this is the only place since the Fall where I've known a moment of peace. It's not the same without Janine, but it's where I need to be. I've advised Mrs. Hudson that I'll be vacating my Baker Street rooms."

"That's a big decision, Sherlock. Can you imagine living away from London?"

"John, after all that's happened, how can you still see me as the same man you first met, as having the same priorities, the same needs?" Sherlock continued while he set about making tea. "The city's too loud for me now. I've learned to tame the wild racing of thoughts in my head and I do not need the stimulation I used to. There was one day in Ukraine where I helped harvest potatoes and then I ate the potatoes I had taken out of the ground. John, I never felt so connected to this world until that moment, and never again until I took the first taste of honey from our bees here. I am going to tend to the bees and grow a garden and plant an orchard and perhaps, on occasion, for a lark, I'll agree to look at a case or two for Greg."

"I sense a but."

"But first, I need to go to Canada."

 

15)

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Saskatoon. The weather today is sunny and the temperature thirty degrees Celsius. Thank you for flying Air Canada."

 

Sherlock grabbed his carry on bag and made his way into the terminal. Customs was quick and he soon found himself in the arrivals area. He did not have time to scan the crowd before he found his arms full of a young man who had been but a boy the last time he saw him. "Oh, Sasha!" he exclaimed, tears welling up as he pulled him into a bone crushing embrace.

 

When he let go and straightened, there was a man in front of him, smiling. Their eyes locked for the very first time as they shook hands firmly. "Hello, Yuri."

"Hello, Sherlock. Glad to meet you at last."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor character death warning in this chapter!


	19. I Apparently Have a Thing for Hostage!Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The few times we've seen Sherlock helpless while being attacked, he has shown normal fear and even panic.* So I guess I'm trying to break the 'Sherlock is stoic under extreme duress' trope?

One of the goons dragged Sherlock into the room, arm around his throat, gun pointed at his temple. John had never seen his friend look so defeated and scared, utterly worn down from more than a full day of being held hostage and a likely concussion, if the wound on his temple was anything to go by. Blood had flowed down his temple and dried almost black against his alabaster skin. The goon pushed Sherlock to his knees and he went down hard onto the cement floor, head tucked into his chest, gun at his nape, shoulders slumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Just off the top of my head:
> 
> The Blind Banker: struggles and calls for John while being choked  
> The Great Game: struggles, whimpers, and looks terrified while being held by the Golum  
> A Scandal in Belgravia: there's a blink and you'll miss it moment where Sherlocks looks very frightened as John has the gun held to his head and Sherlock is certain he doesn't know the code


	20. And For Parent!Lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never forget that the ACD Mary Watson wasn't around for very long. :(

A&E is in complete chaos, with the walking wounded from the accident milling around and their family members rushing in. Sally Donovan does a double take when she sees a familiar dark haired man in a corner. He's pacing back and forth trying to soothe a howling baby. He wasn't at the accident, as evidenced by the fact that he is wearing pajamas and slippers under his familiar charcoal overcoat and his hair is askew. He looks like someone who got a call in the middle of the night and jumped into a cab before he could think about what he was doing. A nurse comes up and hands him something. The next thing Donovan can see is him sinking into a chair and the howling subsiding. Oh, he's feeding her. He also seems to be the best place to start.

 

"Mr. Holmes?"

He looks up and speaks wearily, "Sherlock will do."

"Whose is she?"

"John and Mary Watson. They were involved in the accident. John called me. He and Lily weren't hurt, but Mary is not doing well." Donovan notices his voice catching at that. So Holmes cares deeply for Mrs. Watson. Huh.

"Do you know anything else?" He shakes his head, completely focused on the baby, who is suckling contentedly.

 

"Sherlock?" Donovan looks up to see John Watson. He looks like he's been crying.

"Mary?" Sherlock says hoarsely.

"Won't be long now. Go sit with her a bit."

"All right."

 

Watson takes the seat next to Sherlock's and then accepts the baby and continues to feed her. Donovan watches Sherlock head down the hall and then turns to Watson.

"Not now," he says. She lets him be.

 

After collecting several statements, she sees Sherlock come back into the room. It's obvious he's been crying too. He sits next to John and they hug briefly before John heads back down the corridor. Sherlock wipes his eyes and settles the baby into her carrier. He gets up, slings her nappy bag over his shoulder, wipes his eyes again, and picks up the baby. Donovan goes to him. "Can I offer you a lift?"

"Thank you."

"Where do they live?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Baker Street. This is going to take all night and John won't want to go home after."

 

They make their way to Donovan's car and she lets Sherlock strap in the carrier as he's obviously done it before. As they pull out, "Do we need to stop for anything?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. I mind her a lot and I have a nursery set up with everything she needs for several days."


	21. And For Donovan Makes Peace With Sherlock...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All three of our boys get hurt.

Donovan steps lightly into the room. They've squeezed all three of them in, Greg by the door, Holmes by the window, and Watson in the middle.

 

Greg's only visible injury is the plaster around his wrist. He's snoring gently.

 

Watson has a cut on his left cheek that has been bandaged and a nasal canula. Donovan knows he has a few busted ribs and a lacerated liver. He's also sleeping, head turned towards the window.

 

Holmes looks the worst of the three, although she knows he's better off than Watson. His broken nose has been taped and there is already dark bruising around his eyes. She starts when she realises that he's looking at her through heavy lids. "Can I get you anything?" she whispers.

It takes him two tries to utter, "W..."

She nods. "I'll ask a nurse if it's okay."

 

She's back a few minutes later with a cup and a spoon. "Ice chips only," she tells him. He parts his lips slightly and she takes that as an invitation to feed him a small scoop of ice chips. He sucks for a moment, his features relaxing as the coldness soothes his throat. "More?" He again opens his mouth and she gives him another scoop.

When he's done with that one, he manages nearly all of a word, "Tha..." before falling asleep.


	22. This Obsession With Sherlock and Donovan Making Peace Can't Be Healthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock helps out on a case sometime post-TAB.

I have some more pictures for him, so I go to the empty office where he set up his command center and find him slumped over the table, sound asleep and drooling on my file. In all the years I've known him, all the cases we've worked together, I have never seen him do anything so human. I've certainly seen him go longer without sleep. I know he's still recovering from his gunshot wound, getting over something like that takes longer than the hospital stay, but I'm still shocked. He looks young again and very vulnerable. I step into the hallway, walk some way down it, and drop what I'm holding. It's loud enough to break the silence of this late night with a skeleton crew on hand, but not so loud as to startle. I go back to the conference room and my plan worked. He's sitting up looking a little dazed. I pretend I don't notice and slap the file on the table in front of me. "More photos for you." He nods. "There's a coffee for you in the break room."

 

He comes into the break room a few minutes later. I ignore him as I sip my coffee. He's obviously washed his face and combed his hair. There are several cups on the table and he finds the one with Holmes written on it. There's a box of doughnuts, too, and I'm surprised that he opens it. I can see him mentally count how many there are compared to unclaimed coffees and then he closes the lid. "I'm not having one," I say. He nods, opens the box again, takes one, and bites into it. I've never seen him eat on a case. Ever. Greg says that he keeps himself going with cups of sweet tea, biscuits, handfuls of nuts, bags of crisps, and the odd apple, but I've never witnessed it.

"Thank you," he says on his way out. I'm so stunned, I can't respond.

 

Several hours later, he further surprises everyone by volunteering to do the next coffee run. He actually writes down all the orders instead of showing off his memory skills, and when he comes back, he has a box of custard Danish pastries too. They're my favourite and I know that's not a coincidence.

"It's strange having you back here without Dr. Watson," I say as I prepare to bite into my pastry, my first time attempting to make small talk with him." I regret it when his eyes narrow and look sad for a moment.

He nods. "It is."

"I hear he has a baby?"

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He actually gives me a wry grin as he holds it up, showing that his lock screen is a photograph of the Watson baby, a plump blonde with dimples and her father's deep blue eyes. He enters his password, taps to his photos, and hands me the phone.

 

I scroll through them, seeing the progression of several months. A few are with her parents, many are of Sherlock doing things I never expected him to do, like rocking, feeding, and changing her. The camera has captured the love for her that radiates from his smile. What a lucky darling. She will never want for anything.

 


	23. Look What I Found!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My WIP file isn't particularly well ordered, with stuff scattered through out it, and I'm only just rediscovering all the contents. I must have moved that Greg is attacked story around at one point and... didn't catch it all.
> 
> This is the morning after! Just a bit between Molly and Sherlock.

Molly Hooper knocks lightly on the door to Greg's room early the next morning and lets herself in. Sherlock is curled up in the chair sleeping soundly. She puts a paper bag and a cup on the bedside table and sits in the other chair. Sherlock begins to stir about five minutes later, likely drawn out of sleep by the smell of coffee. He yawns and stretches, his joints popping loudly, before his eyes focus and rest on Molly. He gives her a small smile before getting up and going into the bathroom.

 

When he emerges several minutes later, he's washed his face, combed his hair, and cleaned his teeth. He examines what she brought, setting aside the ham and cheese croissant in favour of the coffee. After taking several sips, he picks up the sandwich and takes a bite. "Thank you," he says hoarsely after he's swallowed.

She smiles. "Any change?"

"He woke briefly overnight." 

"Oh!"

"I don't think he knew much of anything." He continues to work his way through his breakfast as Molly makes herself comfortable, taking one of Greg's hands in hers.

"Any chance I can convince you to go home to have a shower and change?" she asks.

"No."

"I'll sit here with you then."

"I wish you would." He gives her a warm smile.

She chuckles at that and scoots her chair over more closely to Sherlock. To her surprise, he holds out his hand and she takes it. They sit like that for two hours while Greg sleeps peacefully.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited out a bit that I didn't like that explains why Sherlock is hoarse and wasn't talking after the attack -- his throat hurt after screaming during the 911 call we don't want to hear.


	24. Sherlock Back to Work With the Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post this because it's so similar to chapter 22, but it's for Jolie_Black who liked in that snippet how Greg's people now get Sherlock coffee.

The case was interminable, mountains of photographs to go through. It was all hands on deck and Sherlock was pulling his weight. He had stripped down to his shirt and rolled up his sleeves, hunched over his pile of photos and carefully examining each one with his magnifying glass. They had started at 1900 hours.

 

At 2100 hours, Sergeant Mulvaney stepped out and returned twenty minutes later with coffee for everyone but Sherlock.

 

At 2130, Sherlock left the room and returned five minutes later with a cup of vending machine dishwater parading as coffee.

 

Sally Donovan had watched him all evening, quietly working, speaking only when directly addressed. This was his first case since he'd come back from Eastern Europe on a mission that earned him a pardon for Magnussen's murder. She'd never seen him look so slight, withdrawn, and just plain weary. He seemed brittle, like just one harsh word would send him retreating back into himself. He wasn't dishing out insults and unkind words because he couldn't receive them.

 

At 2300 hours, she left the room, returning fifteen minutes later with coffee. She handed Sherlock his first. He looked up at her with dark-rimmed eyes, blinking in confusion at the peace offering. The hand that reached up for the cup trembled slightly.

"Black, two sugars?" she said.

He nodded. "Th- -- thank you." He took the cup with two hands and brought it close to his chest for a moment as though craving its warmth.

 

At 0100 hours, the mountain of photographs had morphed into a hill, but there was still a lot of work to do. Mulvaney stepped out of the room again, returning almost thirty minutes later with another tray of coffees as well as sandwiches. He handed out the drinks and food, stopping last at Sherlock with the final cup and sandwich.

 

"Ham and cheese sandwich with your coffee?"

Sherlock looked up, startled. "I'm sorry?"

"I said, do you want a ham and cheese sandwich with your coffee?"

"Oh, yes. I -- thank you."

 

Mulvaney went back to his table, ignoring the puzzled look boring into his back. Donovan then saw Sherlock blink back tears at this kind gesture, betraying how much had happened to the man in the years since the Fall.


	25. And Now for Something Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is really, really, really terrible and contains dubious medical care, but I am going to share for one main reason: I'm pretty sure this is the only thing I've written in this fandom thus that comes close to capturing snarky Sherlock or one of his ridiculous deductions about someone that would be of no use to anyone else. I didn't think I could do it, but here's a tiny smidgen of proof. By making it public, I have no excuse not to do it again in a proper fic. :)
> 
> There are also some lovely friendship moments with Lestrade. But, really, execution-wise, this is bad!

It was a bright crisp morning in early December and Sherlock Holmes had just solved an obvious, well to him, closed room murder. He was in a good mood and stepped up his pace as he entered an alley that would cut his trip home by half, eager to get into a hot bath while Mrs. Hudson made him a full breakfast. And then, a hooded figure stepped out from behind a skip, holding a gun. A real one. Safety off, so definitely loaded.

 

"Gimme your wallet and phone!"

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock did not have a death wish. He'd backed up his phone that morning and his cards and driver's license could easily be replaced. He also needed to stop at a cash point, having less than twenty quid on him. "All right," he said, raising his hands. "Let me just reach into my pocket." The mugger, obviously a chimneysweep from Yorkshire sacked after getting caught in a compromising situation with a client's cocker spaniel, tapped his foot impatiently as Sherlock pulled out the items.

"Put 'em on the ground." Sherlock bent down, keep his head up and eyes on the mugger, and did as told. "Take twenty steps back!" Sherlock did so, keeping his hands up. The mugger retrieved the phone and wallet, keeping his eyes on Sherlock and the gun pointed at him. Then, he stood and fired.

 

The bullet glanced off Sherlock's right shoulder and he gasped. The mugger's eyes widened and he took off running. With shock already setting in, Sherlock dropped to his knees, left hand coming up to probe the wound. Instead of a hole, he found a trail of burnt flesh that was quickly growing wet with blood. Why did it hurt as badly as getting shot in the chest?

 

He yanked at his scarf and when it came loose, pressed it against the wound, gulping to take in as much oxygen as he could. He wasn't badly hurt. If he could just keep the shock at bay, he could get somewhere warm and call for help. Had it been so cold when he entered the alley moments before?

 

With a grunt, he heaved himself back up onto his feet and took the one hundred thirty-seven laborious steps that brought him out of the alley and onto a busy street. There was a coffee shop on the corner and he stumbled in. "I've been mugged and shot," he made out before collapsing into a chair. His scarf was already soaked and blood was flowing freely through his fingers.

 

The café was crowded and somewhere in the blur of it all, he heard someone calling 999 and then there was pain as another person pressed on his wound. He snarled and the person apologised, but the pressure didn't let up. He let himself be guided to the floor, something soft materialising to cushion his head, and focused on breathing.

 

The paramedics arrived an eternity later and he remained conscious through all ministrations, answering their idiotic questions. No, I'm not allergic to anything. Yes, it hurts. No I'm not injured anywhere else. Give me something for the pain!

 

The world felt a little more normal a few hours later as he sat on a bed in an examination room wearing a disposable scrub top, his wound cleaned and bandaged, his arm tucked into a sling to ease the pressure on the shoulder. He'd been given a local anesthetic only as well as intravenous fluids and he felt slightly more clear headed when Lestrade came into the room.

 

"Handling muggings now?"

Lestrade smirked. "Wanted to see what you got yourself into."

"Believe it or not, this is entirely not my fault." Sherlock recounted the story.

Lestrade shook his head. "You mean, you got mugged? I mean, you _just_ got mugged?!"

"Why did he shoot me? I did everything I was supposed to do. Isn't there, I don't know, a mugger code of conduct?"

"Probably a gang initiation thing. We'll have to keep our eye out for any more attacks like these. Are you doing okay?"

"You've asked me more intelligent questions."

"Right. Let me take you home." He put out a hand to steady Sherlock as he slid off the bed.

Sherlock stood and swayed for a minute, then shook his head. "Oh, I don't feel good." He closed his eyes and swallowed as he sat back down.

"Sick?" Lestrade asked, casting his eyes around the room for a basin.

"No, just unsteady. I think I might need some juice."

"Right. Give me a minute."

 

Lestrade returned quickly with a bottle of orange juice and a packet of oatmeal biscuits from a vending machine. He opened the bottle and helped Sherlock drink when he saw the detective's hand was shaking. Two sips and Sherlock was able to take the bottle himself, continuing with small sips as Lestrade opened the packet of biscuits. Sherlock handed back the bottle and accepted the biscuits. When he was done with the snack, he tried again to stand and found himself steadier.

 

"Ready to go," he said.

"Okay. Where are the rest of your clothes?"

"Trashed."

Lestrade winced. "Was that your last coat?"

"I have one more, but it's not in great shape."

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock shrugged, wincing at the motion. "Can you find me a blanket?"

"Right. Let's ask at the nurses' station."

 

Sherlock let him take his elbow and they carefully walked out of the room and turned right to the busy waiting area. He did not object when Lestrade pushed him into a chair. His eyes felt heavy and he was actually dozing when he felt Lestrade tuck a blanket around his shoulders. He pried his eyes open and frowned. "I'm not riding in that thing," he said in reaction to the wheelchair Lestrade had also found.

"Sherlock, the exit's a floor down and I'm across the carpark. You'll get home much faster if I don't have to drop you at the entrance to get the car."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine."

 

When he was settled in the back seat of Lestrade's car, Sherlock asked for the DI's phone and Lestrade passed it over. Sherlock found Mrs. Hudson in the contacts.

"Mrs. Hudson, shut up for a second. I'm fine, but I was mugged and shot on the way home this morning. Lestrade is driving me home now. I'd like a hot bath waiting and we could both use some breakfast."

Nothing shocked Mrs. Hudson anymore. "Of course, dear."

 

Mrs. Hudson was waiting at the door when Lestrade pulled up. Together, they helped Sherlock up the stairs. "I'm going to help him into the bath," Lestrade said, "then go and fill his prescriptiond."

"All right. I was going to do a full fry up if you have time."

"That'd be great."

 

Sherlock allowed Lestrade to guide him into the bathroom and help with removing the sling and his clothing, both men remembering similar aid in the earlier days of their friendship when Sherlock was struggling with his addiction. This was the first time Lestrade had seen the scars from Sherlock's time in Serbia and he hissed at the sight of them, but bit his tongue. He had seen the long incision cutting across Sherlock's chest from Mary's bullet, however. He helped Sherlock step into the bath and passed him a flannel.

"All right?"

"Yes."

"I'll be back soon to help you out."

"Fine." Lestrade headed out of the room. "Greg?"

A long pause and Lestrade turned back to Sherlock. "Yes?"

"Thank you." Lestrade smiled and nodded.


	26. Self-Indulgent Sherlock/Janine Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's for LizCarroll2612. I can't believe I'm making this public. :)

"Sherlock?" John called from the landing.

"Bedroom," Sherlock called back, his reply muffled.

 

John walked down the hallway to find Sherlock curled up in bed, clutching a pillow. He sat down at the foot of the bed. "Do you want to tell me what happened? All I know is that Janine is really upset."

"We had a pregnancy scare."

"Oh."

"And it made me realise how much I don't want children and made Janine realise how much she wants them."

"Oh."

"So we split up."

John let out a deep breath. "Was it a mutual decision?"

"Yes."

"Was there any shouting at any point in time?"

Sherlock sat up, eyes wide with shock. "What? No. Of course not! I'd never shout at her."

John gave him a wry grin. "Would she shout at you?"

"No. No. We -- we could talk about things."

"Okay, okay. How did you react when she told you she thought she might be pregnant?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "No. I noticed she was late. I bought the kit and suggested we follow up with a visit to her doctor."

John nods. "Okay. Good. Did you at any time tell her at any time that she could get rid of it or..."

"What? No! Of course not! If it happened, I would have supported her." Sherlock shook his head. "I knew this was a possibility, albeit a small one. Why -- why do you always assume I'm a complete arse?"

"Just making sure what side I should be on."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There's no side."

  

_Meanwhile, at the Watson flat_

 

"Why is he so wonderful and perfect?!" Janine sobbed into her third glass of wine.

Mary had to laugh at that. "Not the usual description of Sherlock Holmes."

"He... he treated it like an experiment, with so much focus and dedication. And he was such a good shag!" She began to wail again as Mary topped up her glass.

"I had no idea you wanted children that badly."

"Me neither!"

 

_Thirty years later_

 

Four-year-old Mathilda Harris threw open the front door to the cozy cottage in Sussex Downs and flung herself into her great-uncle Sherlock's arms. He picked her up, kissed her cheek, and ruffled her hair. "Hello, sweet one. Is your granny in the kitchen?"

"Yes!"

Sherlock carried her in and down the hall to the sundrenched kitchen. "Hi, Janine."

She turned from the worktop with a start, "I didn't hear you! Hi!" She strode across the room and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm so glad to see you."

"Uncle Sherlock, will you come play in the sandbox with me?"

"In a moment, Mattie. Your granny and I are going to talk for a bit, okay?"

"Okay!" She flew out the door into the garden.

 

Sherlock took over making tea as Janine sank into a chair. "I can't believe how big she's getting," he said after plugging in the kettle.

"I know! It feels like Tim was that age just yesterday!"

"How are you getting on?" he asked, taking a seat beside her.

"Well enough to know it's time for you to move in."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, a scandalized look on his face. "You buried your husband not four months ago!"

"Sherl, darling, it was never a secret to anyone, least of all Paul, that you're the love of my life. He gave me a beautiful son who gifted me with a precious granddaughter, but I never stopped loving you and I don't want to waste a single minute of whatever time we have left. Paul gave us his blessing when he got sick."

"He did?"

Janine got up and went into the hall. Sherlock heard her open and close the drawer to the small desk there. She came back and gave him an envelope. "From Paul to you."

Sherlock nodded and took the envelope, but made no move to open it. "I don't think I've ever been so concerned about whether or not I was respectful of someone in my entire life."

"Paul knew that I chose him and that our wedding vows meant something. You were never a threat and he considered you a friend, not a rival."

 

The kettle whistled and Sherlock made their tea, adding chocolate Hob Nobs to the tray. They took it out to the patio to watch Mattie play, sipping in contemplative silence for a moment.

"I've never stopped loving you," Sherlock said finally.

Janine smiled at that. "Me neither. But I think this is how it was meant to be. You had an extraordinary life that would never have been possible with a wife and child, and I think it was what you were meant to do. I was meant to be Paul's wife and Tim's mother. But I'm a widow now and you're thinking of retirement and I know that this place will suit you. You can work on your bee experiments full-time and we can take care of each other. It's not good for old people to be alone.

"Hmpf. Who are you calling old?"

"I'll have you note that my hair is still dark. Well, most of it is."

He smirked, then put down his cup and took a deep breath. "Fine, then, but on one condition."

"Oh?"

"Marry me."

"All right."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that.

"Good. I'm glad that's settled. Now, I have a play date to keep."

 

Sherlock insisted on taking the guestroom, as he always did, and it wasn't until he was under the duvet that he opened Paul's letter. It was short, "Your turn to take care of our gal." Sherlock bit his lip, trying in vain to keep tears at bay. He pushed back the covers, got up, and made his way to the bedroom down the hall.

 

He rapped lightly on the door, "Janine?"

"Finally," she answered.

 

_Some weeks later_

 

"Well, you did it," John grinned, sitting in front of a pint at the pub a mile from the cottage two nights after Janine and Sherlock returned from their honeymoon.

Sherlock looked down at the heavy gold band circling his left ring finger and grinned stupidly. "I did."

"Wish Mary could have seen it."

"And my parents and Mrs. Hudson and Greg."

John nodded. "Yeah." A beat passed. "So how was the sex holiday?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last sentence was not my idea: http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/11august


	27. More Sherlock/Donovan Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donovan needs help with a case. Turns out Sherlock is at exactly the right place in his life to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This looks suspiciously like a completed one-shot story, but the case resolution feels so contrived that I can't in good conscience try to pass this off as a real story.

Boss?”

Lestrade looks up from the pile of forms he was signing to find Donovan standing hesitantly in the doorway to his office. “Yeah?”

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I’m wondering if you could ask Sherlock to look at some pictures for me.”

Lestrade puts down his pen. “The Murdoch case?”

She nods. “I know they killed their little girl and that the proof is in those pictures. We’re all missing something. I’m sure of it.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“The night of his arrest. I tried to reach out once after he came back and he brushed me off, said it wasn’t my fault if I was stupid enough to let Moriarty manipulate me that way.”

Lestrade gives an amused huff. “Well, that’s Sherlock-speak for you’re forgiven.”

She nods. “I figured as much. Do you think he’d have a look at my case?”

“I’ll ask him, but I want to make sure you know who you’re bringing in on this one.”

“I’ve known Sherlock almost ten years.”

“You knew him, Sally. Knew him when he was self-absorbed and arrogant and very young. He’s done nothing but one self-sacrificing thing after another since that night and I want to make sure that’s clear and that you’ll show him the respect he’s earned. Okay?”

Donovan is taken aback. “Okay.” She turns away as Lestrade pulls out his mobile to send a text.

 

Not ten minutes later, he’s at Sally’s desk as she’s going over the photographs for the umpteenth time. There’s something there. Why can’t she see it?

 

“He’s on his way,” Lestrade says.

She looks up, surprised. “Wow.”

“I think you’ll know why when he shows up. He won’t be alone.”

 

Thirty minutes later, she sees a familiar figure following Lestrade down the corridor. He’s frightfully thin, much more so than she’s ever seen him, and tan, which speaks to him having spent some time abroad, but not for a holiday. She remembers that he is one of those people who doesn’t eat when stressed. Whatever he’d been doing out there in the sun hadn’t been a lark. Yet, he seems all right, his eyes bright, his gait as confident as she remembers it.  But none of that surprises her more than the fact that he is gripping a push-chair, a blonde girl strapped into it, her head lolling as she dozes. Sally thinks she’s about the same age as the Murdoch girl, somewhere between a year and eighteen months. Sherlock even has a black nappy bag slung over his shoulder. He shrugs it off and passes it to Lestrade, who takes it and control of the push-chair before heading to his office with the girl. She must belong to John Watson. Donovan had heard through the grapevine that he’d married and had a child.

 

Recovering from her shock, Donovan greets Sherlock when he gets closer. “Thanks for coming.”

He nods. “Let me see the photographs.” His tone is curt, but professional.

She spreads the images out on her desk. “Seventeen-month-old girl died from a hematoma after being hit on the head with a statuette that fell off a shelf. I’m convinced her parents are responsible.”

“Hmm.” He starts to scan the photographs and it only takes two for his expression to change. Whatever they all missed, he sees it. “Can I mark these up?” he asks.

“Certainly.” She passes him a permanent marker and he begins to circle things in each photograph. She’s embarrassed that it takes her four pictures to understand. “Oh my God. I can’t believe we all missed that.”

 

“She was developing normally?”

“Far as I know, yes.”

“Then she would have been walking and getting into everything, same as Abigail. There is no evidence they took any care at all to protect their daughter from harm. The lack of childproof locks doesn’t say anything on its own, but there are lots of sharp corners for her to walk into. There’s a liquor cabinet at her height. Cleaning products under the sink. Steps for her to fall down. Look at the things on the shelves. They’re displayed on doilies that are hanging down to a height where she could have grabbed one and pulled, bringing the statuette down on her head. This might not be a case of murder, but it is negligence.”

 

“I can’t believe I didn’t see that myself.”

“I would have missed it just a few months ago. But I’m deep in childproofing my flat right now, so it’s on my mind. Did this help?”

She lets out a relieved sigh. “Yes. Absolutely. I have something to bring to the Crown now beyond a gut feeling. Thank you.”

He nods. “Well, if that’s all, I’ll be going now. Abby is going to be late for a play date.”

“Consulting detective and nanny?”

“Yes. It was supposed to be an occasional thing, but it’s grown to several days a week. I enjoy being with her, seeing the world through her eyes. She’s so curious and she sees everything, even things I’ve missed. Helps me understand how you normal people see the world,” he adds with a smirk.

Donovan grins. “Ah, there’s the Sherlock I know. Thank you again.”

He nods. “Have Lestrade give you my new number. I’m taking cases again.”

Well, isn’t he full of surprises today? “I definitely will.”


	28. Eleven Months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post resolving the Moriarty threat, Sherlock still had to go back to Eastern Europe, vanishing without a trace.

Eliminating the Moriarty threat once and for all had only stalled Sherlock’s exile. This time, there would be no deus ex machina. Mycroft had surprised himself when he’d offered the packets to Sherlock that last night in Baker Street. But Sherlock refused. His friends were safe and he’d met the Watsons’ daughter. He could do one more thing for them and teach their daughter accountability for one’s actions.

 

As predicted, Sherlock was lost to them just past the six-month mark. He’d successfully completed his mission and passed off his intelligence, but failed to meet up at the extraction point. That wasn’t a surprise. What was a surprise was that they had yet to receive confirmation that Sherlock been caught and executed. There wasn’t even a whisper of a rumour. It was as though Sherlock had dropped off the face of the planet. Instead of sleeping, Mycroft would lie awake at night imagining his brother on his knees, gun pressed hard into the nape of his neck. Those were the better dreams. Then, there were those where Sherlock would be in a mass grave, partially hidden by the other bodies around him. That one still wasn’t so bad. Not when compared to images of his little brother being tortured or burned alive or left on a rack to broil under a harsh summer sun. For five months, Mycroft had not slept soundly without medication.

 

The consensus was that, for now, Sherlock would be treated as missing in action. Mycroft kept up the rent on his flat, Mrs. Hudson dusted and Hoovered once a week, and the Watsons made Sherlock real to their daughter by playing for her recordings he’d made before leaving. They would all, of course, have to move on at some point, but that time hadn’t come. Even Mycroft allowed himself the luxury of false hope and of daydreams of his brother strolling into his office high on some impossible case for the Metropolitan Police. He wasn’t normally prone to such fits of fancy, of course, but this was his baby brother.

 

It was early January, just past Sherlock’s fortieth birthday, and they’d all gathered the day prior at Baker Street to mark the event somberly. The hole in all their lives was still too raw and open.

 

Mycroft had accepted a slice of cake to take with him and is thinking of having it with a nip of brandy to toast his brother when Anthea enters without knocking. He looks at her, puzzled. She’s flushed and holding a manila folder.

 

“Oleksandr Panchyshyn,” she says without preamble.

 

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. He’s a top military commander in Ukraine who, thanks to Sherlock’s work, had been captured the month prior and is being held for interrogation.

 

“What about him?

“We’re being offered a trade.”

“They think they have something valuable enough for us to release Oleksandr Panchyshyn?”

“Well, he’s already given us quite a lot. He might be worth more back on the street.”

“Out with it Anthea, what are they willing to trade?”

She swallows hard and pulls a photograph out of the folder, placing it on Mycroft’s desk.

 

Mycroft gives it a quick glance and then his vision tunnels. His next conscious thought is that his head is between his knees and that Anthea is holding his shoulders, encouraging him to take deep breaths. He’s still in too much shock to be mortified. Slowly, he raises his head to look at the photograph again.

 

Sherlock.

 

Hair and beard long and matted, they way they’d been in Serbia. Naked but for loose drawstring shorts. Filthy and thin to the point of emaciation. Not obviously hurt, but his eyes are dulled by fatigue. Kneeling with his hands tied in front of him.

 

Hands that are holding up a newspaper showing the day’s date.

 

“We’re ‘considering’ their offer, but are going through with it, of course. We’ll need Panchyshyn back on the street at some point, and with his work three years ago and again this year, Sherlock is a valuable enough asset to make the trade plausible.”

“When?”

“In three days. And before you say anything, no, they don’t want you anywhere near this.”

Mycroft shakes his head, as though to clear it. “Yes, of course.” For Sherlock to get his pardon, there can be no hint of brotherly involvement.

 

Seventy-five hours later, Mycroft receives a text. “Duckling successfully retrieved and clear of Ukrainian airspace.” A second passes and another text comes in. “Exhausted and malnourished, but otherwise in good condition.”

 

Mycroft thanks a god he had not believed in until this moment and for a second actually believes he will indulge himself with a fit of relieved weeping. Thankfully, the moment passes. He picks up the phone.

 

***

 

John is setting the table when the phone rings. He checks who’s calling and promptly collapses in his chair. Mary turns from the hob. “John?”

“It’s Mycroft.”

“Oh, God.” John stares at the phone for two more rings. “You need to answer it, darling.”

He let’s out a sob and scrubs at his eyes, then clicks the phone on. He knows the older Holmes will immediately deduce his state of mind, so he doesn’t even try to hide the tremour in his voice. “Mycroft?”

“He’s safe, in good condition, and on his way home.”

Those words are so unexpected that they don’t register. Later, John would laugh at having a truly Sherlock moment of his brain rebooting. “Wait. What?” he manages after a moment.

“He was exchanged for one of our prisoners a few hours ago. He’ll be on English soil in a couple of hours. Have your lunch and then make your way to Baker Street if you like. He’ll be exhausted but I suspect he won’t want to rest until he’s seen all three of you.”

 

John lets out a hysterical giggle and looks up to see Mary eyeing him quizzically. He clicks off the phone and manages to squeak out, “Sherlock’s okay and on his way home,” before bursting into tears.

 

***

 

Mycroft decides to tell Mrs. Hudson in person, knowing full well that it will involve getting his suit wrinkled.

 

**

 

When Mycroft gets a text that Sherlock is ten minutes out, Mrs. Hudson puts on the kettle and assembles a plate of previously made sandwiches. She hurries downstairs to greet him. Mycroft is relieved when Sherlock finally steps into the sitting room. While his brother is incredibly thin, he’s standing straight, walking comfortably, and even though he is obviously fatigued, there are no overt signs of distress. He’s already managed a bath, a rough haircut, and a shave. The grey jogging costume he’s wearing does nothing for his pale complexion, but, really, he looks much better than he did in the days, and even weeks, following Serbia.

 

Sherlock and John embrace, then Sherlock and Mary. Mycroft earns himself a handshake, more than the curt nod and sarcastic greeting he’d expected.

 

“Is she here?” Sherlock asks as Mrs. Hudson gently pushes him into his chair and hands him a cup of tea and the plate of sandwiches.

 

Mary smiles. “She is. She’s down for a nap in your bed. I’ll go fetch her when you’ve eaten.”

Sherlock picks up a sandwich quarter and then puts it down again. “What’s her name?”

That earns him a grin from John. “Scottie.”

“What? I thought you weren’t naming her after me.”

“We weren’t,” Mary laughs. “But it’s the only name we could both agree on!”

“Well, thank you,” Sherlock says sincerely before tucking into his meal.

 

They let him eat his fill, Mrs. Hudson replenishing his tea twice and passing him biscuits. “Oh, that was good,” he says, putting the plate down. “I’m all right,” he assures them. “Really, I am. I knew I was being saved for an exchange or a public execution because I was treated better than the other prisoners. Oh, I got roughed up a bit near the beginning, but there was nothing akin to torture. I actually got better food and water than the others, believe it or not. I never got the dysentery that was going around. I’m just exhausted and glad to be home. Mycroft, nobody has told me anything, though…”

“You will be fully debriefed in a few days. You get a full pardon on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“Commit another felony and you will never see the light of day again.”

Sherlock lets out a deep breath. “Got it. Fair enough.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was excised from other WIPs that have a better chance of seeing the light of day. I thought it would be interesting to do a twist on the usual Sherlock comes back shattered story, but couldn't fit it into the larger story arcs I'm working on.


	29. After the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the engagement party in TEH, Sherlock and Lestrade have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt that this one was too much telling and not enough showing to have the potential to be a real story.

Once they'd answered the reporters' questions, Sherlock and John went back upstairs to the engagement party. The conversation dwindled as the bottles champagne emptied. Molly and Tom were the first to excuse themselves, followed by Mrs. Hudson, then John and Mary. Lestrade waited for the door downstairs to shut before turning to Sherlock. "Can we talk?"

"If we must," Sherlock said sourly, his good mood disappating.

"No, I want to talk. Tell me about it. Why you did it and what happened to you while you were gone. Don't think I haven't noticed that you're not okay, Sherlock."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock retorted, collecting glasses and bringing them to the kitchen.

"Well, for one thing, you're tidying up. Another, you're hearing voices. Finally, you're moving stiffly. That's enough for even Anderson to go on that you are most certainly not okay."

"Mmph." Sherlock put the glasses in the sink and headed down the hall to the bathroom. Lestrade heard him run the bath. He settled into Sherlock's chair and clicked on the telly.

 

A half hour later, Sherlock rejoined him and sat on the couch dressed in pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt. Lestrade had never seen him without a dressing gown at home so he knew that Sherlock was telling him something. He gave the man a glance, focusing on his bare arms, and quickly saw the opening Sherlock was giving him, red raw wrists. He said nothing, but caught Sherlock's gaze for a brief minute. Then Sherlock cast his eyes down and began to tell his story.

 

"It was one life for three; mine for yours, John's, and Mrs. Hudson's..."

 

Sherlock spoke for more than an hour about the plan and the extermination of Moriarty's web. His voice did not break as he brought up vivid images of the cold, the hunger, the loneliness, and the violent acts he had to commit against bad men.

 

His tone remained even as he spoke about capture in Serbia, his desperate escape, and the deprivation and torture that followed.

 

The only emotions he demonstrated were shame and remorse. Shame at being human and cold and hungry and lonely and hurt and so stupid that his big brother had to rescue him. Remorse for the blood he had to spill to keep his loved ones safe.

 

He took a break to peel off his tee-shirt to present still healing wounds on his back, held together by sutures and tape and surgical glue.

 

He continued and spoke of John's reception and how it had set back his healing by several weeks and that he couldn't understand why John didn't understand.

 

He expressed how grateful he was for his stoic parents who had not fussed over him.

 

When he was done, he wiped angrily at his eyes and looked at Lestrade defiantly.

 

The DI remained silent as he stood and took a few steps to his coat. He pulled a bottle out of the interior pocket. "I don't know about you, but I sure could use a whisky."

 

Sherlock choked out a hoarse laugh. "Make mine a double."

 

Lestrade reclined in his chair after pouring the drinks. "So we are very lucky, then."

"What?"

"Just something I said to John once. Thank you sounds so trite, but it's the best I can do."

 

Sherlock took a few small sips. then, "Shall I order us a curry, Gerard?"

 

Lestrade's grin was response enough.

 


	30. Deleted Subplot from Reset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For my fellow JanLock fans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a whole subplot in Reset about Sherlock and Janine's growing friendship. It was too much and I excised it completely. These are a couple of scene-lets that survived because I just couldn't bear to let them go.

**Scene-let #1.** _Would have taken place that Thursday night that Sherlock minded Scottie. Sherlock called Janine, not Greg, for help!_

"Staying with Cath and her million cats tonight?"

Janine grins. "Fifteen at last count. You were close."

Sherlock worries his bottom lip for a moment. "If you want to stay, I cleaned the bathroom today and put fresh sheets on the bed yesterday."

"You're getting up if Scottie cries during the night."

"Deal."

 

They order pho and spring rolls for dinner, then catch a movie on Netflix. Or, rather, Janine puts on a frothy rom-com and curls up on the couch while Sherlock pecks away at his computer from his chair, doing research on the Brown case. As the credits roll, Janine stretches. "I'm having a bath and going to bed after."

"I'll follow shortly," Sherlock replies, not looking up.

 

He opts for a quick shower and then joins Janine in the bedroom. She's facing the door from the far side of the bed wearing a short nightie and Sherlock, dressed in pyjama bottoms and a tee shirt, slips in beside her. He takes a deep breath and then gently extends his left hand. Janine takes it, squeezes it, and then shuffles more closely until she can wrap her left arm around his chest and rest her head on it.

 

Sherlock is unable to contain his murmur of pleasure at the contact. How could he have lived so long without it? He wraps an arm around Janine's shoulders, pulling her a little closer, and quickly falls asleep to the gentle sound of her respiration.

 

The next morning, he wakes to find himself wrapped tightly around Janine. He inhales deeply and feels a pang of regret. Why did relationships have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t they be like this, the odd sleepover of just cuddling and no worry of sour-breathed kisses in the morning?

 

“There are other people like you, you know,” Janine murmurs sleepily as she burrows against him. “There’s nothing wrong with being alone, Sherlock, and don’t let anyone tell you that there is. But if you want this, it’s out there.”

“I wish it could be you.”

“Me too.”

 

All he can answer is to hold her more tightly.

 

 **Scene-let #2.** _Would have taken place the next morning, with Sherlock and Janine taking Scottie to the aquarium. Scottie just had a tantrum and Sherlock calmed her down._

 

"You make it seem so easy," Janine sighs.

"I think it's because I'm not judging myself as a parent when I'm with her."

"That's perceptive. You're right. I want kids and when I'm with her, it's like a test that I'm constantly failing."

"No, you're not. As long as she feels secure and loved, I think the rest doesn't really matter."

"My parents fought a lot and after they split up, they shipped me off to boarding school. What were yours like?"

"I didn't appreciate them enough. I think you'd say they're 'lovely.' John calls them 'ordinary.'"

 


	31. Deleted Scene from Reset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking of using this deleted scene as an opener to another story in the "Reset" universe to establish Sherlock's frame of mine. But having found a home for my favourite scene in that story (reborn as "Honey"), I'm ready to move on to other projects. I just didn't want this scene to languish. It takes place during the two hours Lestrade left the room during Sherlock's interview.

Sherlock hadn’t been left alone more than three minutes when there was a rap at the door before it opened. “You can come with me, Mr. Holmes,” a young PC told him. Sherlock scraped his chair back and got up slowly, swaying slightly. He took a deep breath, trying to keep the dizziness at bay, before shuffling to the door.

 

The PC escorted him to the men’s toilets. “Can you manage on your own?”

“Uh, yes. Thank you.”

“I’ll wait out here for you then.”

 

Sherlock was grateful to hang onto whatever shreds of dignity he had left.

 

When he was returned to the interview room, there was a fresh cup of tea and a couple of biscuits waiting for him. “I’ll be outside,” the PC told him. “No idea yet how long this is going to take. If you need anything, just knock on the door.”

 

Sherlock drank his tea, nibbled at the biscuits, and then laid his head down on the table. He really was very tired.

 

Sometime later — his internal clock really wasn’t working well, but it seemed to have been an hour — he woke up groggily to the realisation that his name was being called softly. He wiped at his mouth, disgusted that the back of his hand came back shiny with saliva. The PC mercifully ignored that.

 

“I thought you’d want to know that DI Lestrade said that this is going to take longer than he expected, perhaps an hour more.”

“Oh.”

 

The PC had left him a fresh cup of tea, a bottle of water, and a sandwich. Sherlock thought back to the last time he’d been in such a situation. By the time he’d been  transfered to a top secret prison facility that didn’t exist, submitted himself to a humiliating full-cavity search, been interrogated, and finally locked in a cell, it had been over fourteen hours since he had killed Magnussen. He didn’t get food for a further eight. This time, at his current weight, he couldn’t afford to turn down any food, no matter how much the thought of eating made his stomach roil. So he choked down the sandwich.

 

As he sipped his tea, cognisant that it could be the last cup of his life — the deprivation of such a basic part of his culture a deliberate punishment at the prison — Sherlock allowed a moment to consider the enormity of the day’s events. Just like that, it was all over. He would never sleep in his bed again — and he had so looked forward to sinking into his freshly laundered sheets tonight. Mrs. Hudson would have to find someone else to coddle. And, of course, there would be no more days playing with Rosie. At that thought, he had to choke down a sob.

 

This was so fucking unfair.

 

He laid his head on the table and squeezed his eyes shut, but tears still leaked out. This time, he did not sleep. He continued to go through the catalogue of all the things he had been so grateful to recover only to lose them again.

 

The door opened again. At last, it was Lestrade.

 

“Well, I’ve got good news.”


End file.
